


Storage Wars

by mtothedestiel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Angels, BAMF Castiel, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Psychic Bond, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-07
Updated: 2013-08-02
Packaged: 2017-12-17 22:55:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 28,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/872906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mtothedestiel/pseuds/mtothedestiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Helping hunters, storing things.  The family business.  Sam and Dean have been running Winchester Mini-storage for years, and they have a very loyal, and eccentric group of customers.  They also have a very strict set of policies.  When an unexpected piece of "cargo" starts making a ruckus, Dean and Sam find most of their rules breaking, and being thrown further into the supernatural fight than they've ever been before.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! This is the first chapter of a longer fic that i'm really excited about. It's set in the general canon universe of Supernatural (hunters, demons, angels etc.) but Sam and Dean have a very different role in it. I live in the boonies, and those shady looking self serve storage units are all over the place. I thought: that seems like a good resource for hunters. Funny enough, I got quite a few of the themes of this piece from "The Transporter", that movie starring Jason Statham. Go figure. As per usual, I own nothing, and I treasure all your feedback!

_Winchester Mini-Storage General Policies:_

_1) As long as you can unload it yourself and it’s not human, all unit contents are no questions asked._

_2) All unit contents are confidential, and will not be accessed by the proprietors without the express permission of the customer, or if the contents threaten the general safety of Winchester Mini-Storage or its employees._

_3) Before a contract is finalized, all customers must be able to pass a series of tests (holy water, silver knife, salt) in order to verify their human status._

_3) All units are forged iron, lead lined with salt foundations, and come inscribed with basic anti-demonic warding.  Any additional security is the sole responsibility of the customer._

_4) All rented units must indicate one of the following danger ratings:_

_Level A: Low to moderate hazard (general spellworking ingredients, non-cursed weaponry, camping supplies etc.)_

_Level B:Moderate to high hazard (Cursed objects, explosives, bio-hazardous materials etc.)_

_Level C: High to Extreme Hazard (Contained spirits, demonic relics, deceased or captured monsters etc.)_

_Note: Any sentient unit contents automatically merit a Level C danger rating._

_5) All unit prices are final and non-refundable.  Any failure to pay on time will result in the voiding of the unit contract and the confiscation of any contained goods._

_6) The proprietors are not responsible for any damage that comes to a customer or their unit contents during loading or unloading, supernatural or otherwise.  The main office, open 24 hours a day, is equipped with a basic medical field kit.  All other medical attention is the responsibility of the customer._

_7) Each unit rented comes with an emergency codeword.  If activated at any time by the customer, all units listed in that customer’s contract will be sealed by the proprietors for 18 months.  Unit contents will be inaccessible until the duration of the lockdown period is complete._

_8) In the event of siege, natural disaster, or the Apocalypse, contents of all Level A units will be utilized to aid in the fortification and defense of the property._

 

* * *

 

 

Dean woke up to an angry buzzing on his bedside table at four in the morning.  He scrabbled blindly for his phone, whose vibrating ring was harsh enough to rattle his keys, not to mention wake him up from an actual good dream.  Those were rare enough that when Dean answered his cell it was with an irritated growl.

“You better not be calling for another synonym Chuck.”  A nervous sigh echoed across the line, followed by the clacking of a keyboard.

“No…,” Chuck said reluctantly, the same way he said everything, “I just got a vision.”

“Anything serious?”  Dean asked, sitting up and rubbing his eyes tiredly.

“It’s Martin,” Chuck told him, “And it looks like he’s off his meds again.  You said to call you if-“

“Yeah yeah I’ll be down in a minute,” Dean groused, looking around his wreck of a bedroom for his jeans, “Do you have a time frame?”

“Maybe ten minutes or so?”  Dean rolled his neck, hearing a few pops that told him he was getting too old to be up and about before the sun.  But that’s what you get when hunters are your primary clientele. 

“Alright, lemme get Sam up and I’ll see you down there in a bit,” Dean said, “Stall him if he gets there ahead of schedule.  And don’t let him get a hold of any keys.”

“I know the policies,” Chuck muttered.  Dean rolled his eyes, hanging up the phone.  Chuck was dependable but he was prone to pouting.  Dean tugged on yesterdays Zeppelin t-shirt and made his way to Sam’s door.  He knocked three times and waited.

“…Whadyou wan’ Deaan..” came his brother’s sleep muffled reply.

“Chuck needs back up at the lot,” Dean told him through the door, “Martin’s on his way and he’s not in the best frame of mind.  I told him we’d stop in and take care of it.”

Dean heard a lot of shuffling fabric and muttering about “freakin’ _family_ business…” before the door opened and Sam emerged, bleary eyed but mostly presentable, except for a spectacular case of bed head.

“Nice hair,” Dean commented, ducking Sam’s retaliatory punch.

“I don’t see why we both have to go,” Sam whined, “Chuck can’t handle it by now?”

Dean shrugged.  “You know Martin will go easier if we’re there,” he told him, “He knows us.”

Sam reluctantly agreed and in two minutes they were pulling out of the garage in Dean’s 1967 Impala, headed down the short dirt road that led to their main office.  Dean could just make out the rows of units in the dark, the small sheds innocuous upon first glance, though anyone who cared to look closely would see they were made of iron and covered in Latin sigils.  His headlights hit their weathered wooden sign ( _Winchester Mini-storage: Units available!)_ before lighting up the side of the small cabin-like building that served as their business headquarters.  Dean groaned when he saw Martin’s red pickup was already pulled onto the grass next to the office.

“Let’s handle this so I can get back to sleep,” Sam said, straightening his shoulders as he got out of the car.

“Amen to that,” Dean grumbled.            

* * *

“I’m not gonna ask you again son, I need my dang keys!”  Dean didn’t even have to look to know that Chuck was already wilting under Martin’s frustrated tirade. 

“I’m sorry,” Chuck stammered, “But I’m just following the rules-“

“Hiya Martin,” Dean called out as Sam followed him into the fluorescent lights of the office, “Havin’ some trouble?”

Martin turned to greet the brothers, his shoulders drooping in relief.

 “Thank the Lord you boys are here,” the hunter said, “I’m locked outta my unit, and this knucklehead won’t give me the spare set.  Tell me you can set ‘im right, Dean.”

Dean shook his head.  “C’mon man, we can’t open up sealed units, you know that.  It’s for everybody’s safety.”

Martin’s eyebrows cinched in a look of plain confusion, and Dean felt a twinge of pity. 

“You gave us your code last year, remember?” Sam asked, “You wanted to make sure your supplies stayed safe while you were in the hospital.”  By hospital, Sam meant “mental institution”, but Dean appreciated that his brother chose not to make that distinction.  Martin Creaser had been a good hunter and a good friend to their dad while he was alive, and the brothers still tried to help him out now when they could.  Dean wasn’t about to write somebody off for having a few issues, when he or Sam could easily be in the same position someday.  Dealing with the supernatural didn’t exactly lead to good mental health.

 “Yeah,” Sam continued, “Eighteen month emergency lockdown.  Nobody can get in there ‘til November.”

“My code?”  Martin still looked uncertain.

“Hey Chuck,” Dean called to the nervous writer, who was doing his best to hide behind the stacks of paper that covered his rickety ply board desk, “You think you can pull up Martin’s file?  It might help if we can all refresh our memory.”

Chuck assented quickly, and a few shuffled papers later they were staring down at Martin’s lease forms, reading what Sam and Dean already knew would be there.  _Unit Sealed at Renter’s request.  CODEBLACK: 2171974._   Watching Martin’s face fall as he realized what was happening was almost as rough as sealing his stuff up had been in the first place.  But they had protocols for a reason, and the emergency code was the most important of all. 

“Aw damn,” Martin cursed, looking dejected, “I’ve done it again, haven’t I boys?”

“It’s alright Martin,” Dean assured him with a hand on his shoulder, “We get it.  It’s tough out there.”

“I’m sorry,” he apologized, “It’s just so _hard_ to remember.”

“I know buddy,” Dean commiserated, “We talked about what can help with that though, right?  You gotta take your meds.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” Martin mumbled, “O’course you’re right.”

“Alright.  You come back in six months, and we’ll have all your stuff safe and sound like always.  Sam?  You wanna walk Martin out to his car, make sure he’s alright to drive?”

“You bet.”  Sam hopped off the desk to grab Martin’s bag and lead him outside.  Dean could hear them talking about getting a beer and talking over old times once the hunter was feeling better.  Grumpy as he was in the mornings, Sam was always good with customers. 

“You okay Chuck?” Dean asked, looking to his clammy underling.  Chuck sighed, wringing a hand through his disorderly dark hair.  Poor guy really oughtta be working in a library somewhere or somethin’.  He wasn’t really cut out for the hunting crowd.  Unfortunately being a real deal psychic tended to get you mixed up with the scary side of reality whether you liked it or not. 

“Yeah, I guess,” he said, “It’s just a pretty craptastic situation.  The Martin thing hits a little too close to home for me.”

“Hey you’re not like him,” Dean said sternly, “Martin’s just been in this business too long.  You’ve got a whole ‘nother level of shit goin’ on in that head of yours.”

“Maybe that’s what I’m worried about,” Chuck muttered, looking back to his computer screen forlornly, “Just don’t let me end up like him.”

“Martin’s gonna be okay,” Dean insisted, “He’s got friends.  He’s got us.  And so do you.”

Chuck nodded, “Yeah...I guess.  Thanks Dean.”   He took a gulp of lukewarm coffee that Dean had a feeling was mostly whiskey.

“No problem,” Dean told him with a slap on the back, “Now are you done bein’ a girl about this, or do you need a few minutes?”

“Nah I’m good,” Chuck said as Sam returned from the lot, jangling the front door bell, “I was making some decent progress on this chapter when I got interrupted.  I may as well keep going.”

“Well Sam and me were making decent progress on sleeping, so if you don’t mind we’re gonna get back to it,” Dean told him.  Chuck just waved him off, already engrossed in the glow of the ancient monitor.  So much for gratitude, Dean thought to himself as he and Sam left the fluorescent lights of the office behind for the eerie darkness of the parking lot.  The darkness was interrupted by the appearance of a new set of headlights.

“Busy night,” Sam noted, and Dean shrugged as the large SUV trundled into the gravel parking lot.  After midnight wasn’t unusual hours for people that got by on four hours of sleep.  A dark figure emerged from the vehicle, and Dean recognized Gordon Walker with little difficulty.  The guy was on the more dangerous end of the hunters they liked to deal with, according to their contacts, but he paid regularly and hadn’t caused any trouble for them yet. 

“Winchester,” Gordon greeted them curtly, nodding at Dean then Sam.

“Walker,” Sam responded coolly.  For whatever reason, Sam had taken a strong dislike to the hunter early on.  Hell, Dean wasn’t gonna be knockin’ back beers with the guy anytime soon, but they were runnin’ a business here. 

“How’s hunting?” Dean asked, trying to break up some of the tension.

“You guys got any units?” Gordon asked instead of answering Dean’s small talk.  Come to think of it, the guy looked kinda on edge.  Well more on edge than usual.  His hands were in tight fists at his sides, and there was a tremor in his voice that suggested the tail end of an adrenaline rush. 

“Yeah, sure,” Dean said cautiously, “Chuck’s on duty, he can set you up.”

“Right, yeah.” Gordon said curtly, heading for the rickety screen door.  Sam tapped Dean’s arm, indicating the large silver horse trailer that Dean just noticed was hooked up to the back of Gordon’s truck with concern.  The large splash of blood across the metal looked black in the dim light, though it had that unsettling sheen that told Dean it was pretty fresh.

“Everything alright Gordon?”  Dean called after the tense hunter.

“None of your goddamned business Winchester,” came the terse reply, “Or isn’t that a clause in your policy anymore?”  Dean scowled after the man, but shrugged.  Technically he was right.  Confidentiality was the main draw for their customer base.  He tried to brush the encounter off, and by the time he pulled open the car door, the tension was gone from his shoulders. 

“That was weird,” Sam commented, brow still furrowed.

“Dude, you forget what business we’re in?” Dean laughed before sliding into the driver’s seat and revving his baby’s engine.   All in a night’s work for the Winchesters.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another day at the office, until something unexpected occurs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, just a little more specific warning for blood and graphic injuries from torture towards the end of the chapter.

Late the next morning found Dean spinning in the office’s only wheelie chair while Sam made do with one of the chairs hijacked from their kitchen, fiddling with something on his laptop.  It was a slow morning, though, come to think of it, they rarely had busy mornings.  Selling self storage units wasn’t exactly the most competitive of businesses to be in, and most of the lot was kept deliberately run down and suspicious looking to ward off the casual-passersby and the seasonal college students.  There weren’t many couches and cardboard boxes kept at Winchester mini-storage.  No, they catered to a very specialized and extremely loyal set of customers.  Customers who needed somewhere safe to stash their supplies, and who didn’t have to worry about civilians poking their noses around and getting themselves killed.  Sam and Dean, and their dad, before he died, had been happy to fulfill that need.  Dean didn’t really consider himself to be a hunter, though he and Sam had lent a hand of a few local cases, but they were a crucial cog in the fight against all things unholy, and he was damn proud of that.  That didn’t stop Tuesday mornings from being boring as all get out. 

Both brothers jumped when the phone rang, Sam looking up from his dusty guide to rune carving as Dean answered. 

“Winchester Mini-storage, what can I- oh hey Chuck,” Dean relaxed as his business partner greeted him from across the line, “Long time no see.”

“Back at ya,” Chuck chimed, and Dean heard the clink of a beer bottle, “Just had another vision.”

“You don’t sound to upset about it,” Dean ventured, “All quiet on the western front?”

“Yeah everything’s good,” Chuck told him, sounding uncharacteristically cheerful, “Tamara’s gonna be stopping in later.  I just thought Sam might wanna know.”

Dean laughed.  Chuck’s good mood was infectious.  It was a little depressing how happy Chuck got when he only had to deliver good news. 

“I’ll tell him,” Dean said, “Give him plenty of time to fix his hair and practice his mating call.”  He ignored Sam’s bitchface from across the desk, grinning as it turned into a blushing smile that always showed up when his little brother thought about the lady hunter. 

“He’s being nauseating, isn’t he?” Chuck asked from across the line. 

“You bet he is,” Dean answered, reaching to ruffle Sam’s hair teasingly, “Hey, you dealt with Gordon last night, right?”

“Walker?  Yeah,” Chuck said, “He was acting real shady.  Even for him.”

“Yeah we thought so too,” Dean agreed, “What’d he take out?”

“A level C,” Chuck informed him somberly, “Snapped at me when I tried to make small talk.”

“Hm,” Dean exchanged a look with Sam, “You didn’t get any news flashes on him, did you?”

“Nope,” Dean heard the slam of a refrigerator door, “Just a major case of the jeebies.  I do not like that guy.”

“You and me both buddy,” Dean commiserated, “Keep me updated, okay?”

“You bet.  Take it easy guys.”

“You too Chuck.”  Dean hung up the phone and turned to examine his brother with a raised brow.  Sam was staring determinedly back at his laptop, very pointedly _not_ straining to listen for the jingle of the front door bell.

“So Chuck says Tamara’s coming in today.”

“So I gathered.”  Sam’s response was level, as if his face wasn’t already blushing bright pink.  Dean tapped a pen mindlessly on the arm of his chair.

“You wanna take her out for a sandwich or something?” Dean offered, “Maybe a nice walk in the woods?”

“I’m good, thanks.”

“You sure?  ‘Cause I don’t mind if you-“

“Dean,” Sam snapped, “I said no thanks.”

Dean fell silent, turning back to his stack of paperwork.  A few minutes of shuffling and clacking computer keys passed as the tension leaked out of the air.  Dean had been teasing, but he really just wanted Sam to be happy.  He was pretty sure Sam hadn’t had more than a one night stand since his first girlfriend died ten years ago.  It was none of his business, but he was pretty sure that was something Sam and Tamara had in common. 

“She’s not gonna want to wear black forever, Sam,” Dean said quietly as they both worked. 

“That’s not up to me,” Sam answered, sounding tired.  Their mutual moping was interrupted by the entrance of Tamara herself, shuffling through the front door with an oversize duffle bag and a very old looking piece of parchment rolled up under one arm.

“Hey, Tamara!” Dean greeted as Sam got up to help with the heavy bag, “Long time no see.  Where ‘ya been?”  Tamara tossed his brother a grateful smile before speaking.

“Hello Sam, Dean,” she answered, “Been across the pond.”

“Treasure hunting?” Sam asked, voiced piqued with interest.  Since her husband’s death Tamara had continued a solo hunting career, but over the years she had specialized, using her international connections to gather one of the largest collections of protective amulets, talismans, and totems in the global hunting community.  She ran a sort of rental business of her own of one of the Winchester’s level B units, loaning defensive jewelry and armor to hunters in need at no cost.  Since Sam and Dean had known her, she’d become conversational in eight languages and was probably the only person Dean knew who could go toe to toe with his brother on mythological lore.  Isaac’s death could have made Tamara another victim; instead she became one of the most respected hunters of their generation.  Maybe Dean was being a little pushy with his matchmaking, but _come on_.  Sam could not find a more bad ass chick.

“Yeah I’ve got some cousins in Wales,” Tamara told them, “They clued me in to a rather sizable stash of pre-Roman amulets that some archaeologist was gonna let sit pretty in the British Museum.  I managed to convince him otherwise, and I’m here to deposit the results.”  She slapped the duffle bag, which clinked with its hidden treasures.  “It’s been too long, so I thought I’d pop in and say hello.”

“Hello,” Sam said, shuffling awkwardly, and Dean tried not to laugh as his blushing brother.  Tamara was by no means petite, but Sam still towered over her, ending up giving the impression of a nervous Great Dane.  Luckily Tamara seemed to find it charming.

“Hello yourself,” she flirted back.  Dean was starting to feel like a third wheel.  All according to plan. 

“That doesn’t look like a Celtic amulet,” Dean said, indicating the rolled up paper Tamara was carrying. 

“Right! This,” Tamara stammered, as if she had forgotten it was there, “I picked this up in London on my way back.  It’s a map.  The key is in Gaelic, but it looks like somebody started annotating it in Latin.”  She stepped further into the office, rolling the old map out on the desk.  Sam and Dean both looked in interest at what looked like a good old fashioned treasure map.

“It could lead to a bounty of religious artifacts,” Tamara continued, “Problem is, both languages are a step to the left of what I’m used to, some local vernacular or something, so I’ve had a bugger of time translating it.”

“I can take a look at it,” Sam offered, “Between the two of us maybe we can make some headway.”

“Okay, yeah,” Tamara agreed, her smile flashing bright against her rich dark skin, “I was hoping you might be able to take a crack at it.”  Perfect, Dean thought as he grabbed a clip board and headed for the door.

“Where you going Dean?” Sam asked him, face panicked.

“My Latin’s real rusty,” Dean fibbed, “The two of you will be better off without me holdin’ you up.”

Sam gave him the “I know what you’re pulling here and it’s not funny” look, to which Dean responded with his “It’s for your own good kiddo” grin.

“You kids have fun.  I’m gonna make some rounds,” Dean called over his shoulder as he left his brother and Tamara in the office.  As he strolled across the gravel lot to the neat rows of storage sheds, Dean mused over Sam’s school girl crush.  He hadn’t seen the guy get this nervous around a woman since he was fifteen and taking his first date to the state fair.  Tamara was gorgeous, and she didn’t take any shit, not to mention her and Sam’s mutual tragic histories.  Dean hoped Sam got his act together soon and made a move, or he was gonna have to start being _really_ obnoxious about it.  He was hoping someone like Tamara could pull Sam out of his ten year slump.  Honestly, ever since Sam had come home from school it was like he was determined not to do a goddamn thing that could result in personal progress.  Growing up all the kid could talk about was getting out of Kansas, getting as many degrees as he could and seeing the world.  Now it was like he was just surrounding himself in books and the family business and old photographs of Jess and hoping the world will just pass him by.  That was no way to live.  Not for a guy like Sam. 

Dean made his way among the rented units, checking for scratches on the spray painted symbols or weaknesses in the iron frames.  He did cursory checks of the Level A’s, since they mostly contained pretty standard supplies.  Most hunters lived out of their cars and just needed a little extra storage space for books and seasonal clothes.  Dean knew for a fact that old Rufus had taken out a Level A just to keep his extensive liquor collection safe while he was on the road.  The fact that he paid his rent in Johnnie Walker was just a side bonus. 

The Level B’s he was more careful with, as they tended to contain more volatile stuff.  Dean pressed his ear to each door, checking for unexpected sound or vibrations as well as making sure the seals were intact.  He noticed the Harvelle’s unit had a weird buzzing that wasn’t there yesterday; he made a note of it on his clipboard.  He’d give Ellen a call later just in case.  She and her daughter were good friends of theirs, and they dealt mainly in vengeful spirits and cursed objects, and sometimes latent spiritual energy could stir up a ruckus.  The Roadhouse was only a few states away, so it wouldn’t be too big a hassle for her to send Jo up to check on it.

Level C units weren’t exactly a common occurrence.  First off, the rent was almost double a Level B, and second Dean was always pretty cautious when it came to renting them out, especially after the incident with Ash.  The moron had tried to keep a fairy cooped up in one, and Dean had gone out to do his rounds to find the whole goddamned unit gone, right down to the foundations.  Keeping live monsters around, or even supposedly dead ones, was usually more trouble than it was worth.  In fact, besides the Campbell’s, who were storing a possessed wing backed chair until they could salt and burn the ghost’s bones, the only Level C they had at the moment was Gordon’s.

The small shed was at the back corner of the lot, and Dean approached with caution.  Outwardly, it looked the same as the rest of the identical units available for rent.  It was only the contents, and the monster padlock keeping it locked that differentiated it.  Dean felt an ominous sort of energy as he drew close, and he loosened his collar as he realized he was sweating, despite the overcast spring day.  The heat was emanating from the unit itself, he quickly realized, and he checked the notes left on Gordon’s file.  There it was, the only sentence in the available box.  _High Temperature Normal._ All clear then, Dean supposed, though he didn’t like the feeling in his gut as he walked away from the shed.  Oh well, Gordon probably nabbed himself a fire djinn or something.  It was none of his business anyway.   

Dean took his time patrolling the rows of small buildings, and it was a little over an hour later when he returned to find his brother alone in the office once more. 

“How’d things go with Miss Indiana Jones?” Dean asked as he plopped back down in his chair.  Sam rolled his eyes. 

“It was good,” he answered anyway, “We managed to find a consonant switch on the Latin that gave her a good head start.” 

“That’s nice.  Too bad you couldn’t give her a head start on dinner and a movie,” Dean quipped with a dry stare.

“For the last time Dean, quit pushing-“  Sam’s hissy fit was interrupted by the angry vibration of Dean’s phone on the desktop.  Dean frowned to see Chuck’s name on the caller ID.  Two calls from Chuck in one day was never a good sign. 

“Talk to me,” he said as he answered.

“Dean! Holy shit thank God,” Chuck sounded halfway to insane over the phone.

“Chuck what the hell’s the matter?” Dean demanded, “Two hours ago you said everything was fine.”

“Everything is no longer fine,” Chuck stammered, “Everything’s gone.  I-I mean it’s gonna be gone.  Boom.  Explosions.  White light.  A crater from here to the next county-“

“Man you’ve got to slow down, you’re not making any sense,” Dean said over Chucks babbling, “Just tell me what you saw and we can handle it.”  Sam’s irritated expression was replaced by a hard jawed worry.

“Gordon’s unit,” Chuck continued, “The level C.  It’s gonna blow in three days and it’s gonna take most of the zip code with it.”

“Well shit,” Dean breathed, “I was just out there.  We’ll go take another look.”  The contents of Gordon’s unit were officially now his business.

“Be careful,” Chuck warned, “The explosion comes from the outside.  Whatever’s in there, somebody wants to get rid of it enough that they’ll take out a chunk of the state to do it.”

“You got it.  You better get down here.  We might need the extra hands.”

“ _Christ_ , okay. I’m on my way.”

“What’s happening?” Sam asked as Dean hung up the phone. 

“Gordon’s level C,” Dean told him, voice clipped and efficient as he grabs a sawed off from under the desk and tossed it to him, “Somebody’s gonna try to blow it to kingdom come in three days.  I wanna know what’s so important in there.”

Sam pocketed a handful of salt rounds, Dean grabbed a pair of bolt cutting shears, and together they headed back out to the edge of the lot, the where the shed sat innocuously in its corner plot.  Dean placed a hand on the iron door, and pulled it back just as quickly, swearing.  It was almost hot enough to burn.  He placed the shears between the rods of the heavy padlock, bracing himself. 

“You ready?” he asked Sam.

“Let her rip,” came the answer as Sam trained the shotgun on the door.  Dean cinched the bolt cutter with all his strength, and the lock snapped, falling from the barn-style doors with a heavy clank.  Dean gripped the door handle with a sleeve covered hand and pulled.  The contents that awaited them were enough to make him drop the bolt cutters in shock.

“What in the hell…” Sam breathed as they took in the scene before them.  It was a cavalcade of blood sigils, the tang of copper overwhelming on the air as the power in the spells kept the blood from drying.  Dean heard the clank of iron, and his eyes were drawn to the back of the shed.  Despite the shadowy interior of the unit, Dean could see a figure lit by the glow of red hot metal.  The combination of the blood and the forge-like heat was enough to make his vision swim, but Dean ventured forward, Sam close behind. 

“Hey, can you hear me?” He called to the figure, who was hazy in his vision.  He neared, and the bottom dropped out of his stomach as he realized that the glowing metal was a pair of shackles, and that those shackles were actually attached to a _person_.  The smell of burning flesh added to the blood and Dean heard Sam gag behind him.  The heat became too much, and they could go no further, but Dean was close enough that what he saw made the bile rebel in his gut.   Curled into a defensive ball on the floor in the middle of the concentric sigils was a man in a ragged trench coat and the shredded remains of a suit.  Red-hot chains bound him hand and foot, hissing against the flesh of his wrists.  What Dean could see of his chest and stomach was a mess of torn flesh, more sigils carved into his skin.  Bitter tears poured from his eyes, which were dilated in pain, making them look black in the red light of the shed. 

“Jesus Christ,” Dean swore, coughing from the smell and the smoke from the chains, “Sam!  Go get some water or somethin’!  _Fuck.”_ He heard his brother sprinting back to the office as he inched forward towards the bound man, gasping from the heat as the captive’s eyes seemed to focus on him for the first time. 

“Hey,” Dean called again, offering non-threatening hands, “Can you hear me?  Who are you?  _What_ are you?”  The figure flinched away, but Dean continued to reach forward.

“It’s okay,” he promised, “We want to help.  My name is Dean.  Who are you?”  The man hesitated, and Dean began to withdraw, the heat blackening the edges of his vision, when and hand suddenly darted forward, grasping at his fingers.  The moment their skin touched Dean fell into a void of agony and fire.  He nearly screamed before he realized it was only an empathetic connection.  The man was trying to communicate with him, and Dean was feeling everything he felt under his constraints.  Dean struggled not to pull away, and was rewarded when a rough voice echoed through his mind. 

_My name is Castiel.  I’m an Angel of the Lord._    


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Freeing Castiel is tricky...and then there's Gordon.

_An-an angel?  But-angels don’t-you can’t be-_ Dean didn’t know what to think, or how to process the fact that he was speaking without moving his lips.  _What happened to you?_

_Hunted.  Captured.  Tortured.  Restrained._ A series of frightening and violent images accompanied the words that thundered in Dean’s mind.  He saw the flash of a knife and the dull pulse of molten metal as it jumped in a crucible.  He saw a wave of red hair and a woman’s scream that was harsher than any human voice could generate. 

_How can we help?_ Dean asked, indicating the burning restrains and the intricate binding sigils. 

_Water.  Holy water.  Baptism._ Behind Dean’s closed eyes he watched as blood was washed away and metal became cold and brittle amid a cloud of burning steam.  

“Dean!” He heard Sam calling from the doorway and looked back to see his brother with a ten gallon jug, the kind they usually put in the water cooler, in each hand. 

_We’re going to get you out of here_ , Dean promised Castiel before reluctantly pulling his hand away and joining Sam.

“Did he say anything?” Sam asked as Dean emerged from the dark. 

“Claims he’s an _angel_ ,” Dean said gruffly as his brother’s eyes widened, “Name’s Castiel.  He’s in bad shape.”  Sam gaped for a moment, before pulling himself back into action mode.  Dean didn’t blame him.  If Castiel was telling the truth, it changed everything they thought they knew about the world, for hunting and for humanity. 

“So what’s the plan?”

“We get him out of there,” Dean told him, unscrewing the top to the first water jug, “You got a rosary on you?”  Sam offered him the beads, which he quickly dropped inside the plastic barrel, saying the basic Latin prayer for blessing.  Luckily making holy water was a basic skill for every hunter, most kept rosary beads tucked in every available pocket.  Dean plucked the phone out of his pocket and tossed it to Sam.

“Call Gordon,” he ordered, “Let him know we had to pull a Rule 2, and see if you can find out what the hell he was thinking.”

“What are you doing?” Sam looked confused, but he dialed Walker’s number. 

“He…Castiel told me the only way to wash out the sigils is with holy water,” Dean relayed, “Should take care of the chains too I guess.”

“Well at least we’ll know if he’s actually a demon,” Sam guessed as he held the phone to his ear, and Dean had to shrug his agreement.  He hefted the jug on one shoulder as Sam pulled out a second string of beads to purify the other.  Gritting his teeth, Dean reentered the storage unit to see that Castiel was losing strength, his head dropped in despair and his limbs limp against the burning metal.  Without preamble Dean flipped the barrel, a flood of holy water hitting the floor and immediately starting to break down the closest sigils.  Dean could _feel_ the flex of power in the room as the layers of binding broke one by one.  Castiel could feel it as well, because his head snapped up and his eyes widened as he stared at Dean like he was the second coming of Christ.  He reached for Dean with hands that shook, a supplication from his burning wrists.  Dean took the hint, moving closer to the angel, splashing holy water liberally as he went, until he was close enough that he could aim the flow of water over Castiel’s hands.  The cloud of steam the arose from the contact of the water to the glowing metal chains was enough to burn, but Dean stood his ground for the sake of the angel, who had more tears coursing down his cheeks, this time from relief.     

Dean heard Sam come in behind them, splashing more water and smudging out sigils with his boots as Dean did his best to drench Castiel from head to toe.  He knelt on the wet and bloodstained floor to soak the shackles that bound the angel’s feet.  The red hot metal turned gray and cold under the steady flow of holy water, plunging the room into near darkness.  A pair of rough hands cupped Dean’s face, and he looked up to see the angel, lit only by the slice of cool daylight that managed to sneak in through the open door.  Dean realized with a jolt that even torn up and smudged with soot, Castiel was _beautiful_.  A rush of emotion flooded him and he colored as he remembered that the angel’s touch allowed them to communicate, so he had practically just shouted that out loud.  A pair of tired, red rimmed eyes danced with wry laughter, dark blue depths still tinged with pain. 

_You’re still hurt_ , Dean observed, looking at the charred skin of Castiel’s wrists and the open wounds on his chest. 

_My Vessel._ Dean’s mind was besieged with images of a man, laughing and carefree, walking with a small girl.  Dean realized it was the same body that knelt on the floor before him, though he could see from Castiel’s eyes that they weren’t the same person.   _It needs time to heal._

Dean’s brow furrowed _._ He didn’t like the sound of this ‘Vessel’ business.  The hands on his face began to tug insistently, and Dean found himself the unexpected recipient of an angel’s kiss.  It was chaste, painfully chaste, to the point that Dean almost wondered if it was some sort of angel handshake that he just wasn’t aware of.  Weren’t angels always kissin’ each other in paintings and shit? Dean’s mental babbling was interrupted by a wall of…well, _feelings_.  Dean though for a second he would black out from the weight of the emotion Castiel was dumping on him.  After an awkward moment the angel’s eye’s fluttered closed, and his head slumped onto Dean’s shoulder in a dead faint.  Dean turned to see Sam staring at him with wide eyes and shrugged.  The method may have been unorthodox, but the message had been perfectly clear. 

_Thank you._  

“What in the hell was _that?_ ” Sam asked, emptying the last of his water barrel against the walls.

“I dunno,” Dean said, teetering under the angel’s dead weight, “I think he’s pretty out of it.  Give me a hand, will ‘ya?”  With an arm over each of their shoulders they managed to drag the angel out of the shed and into the open air, where breathing immediately became easier for everyone involved. 

“Where are we takin’ him?” Sam grunted, adjusting Castiel’s weight more evenly.

“Back to the office I guess,” Dean ventured, “At least for the moment.  C’mon.”

  It took a bit of wrangling, but they finally managed to deposit Castiel somewhat gently on the worn wooden floors of the office, Dean’s jacket balled up under his head as a makeshift pillow.  Dean lifted one of the angel’s wrists, examining the shackles that still hung on a length of delicate chain.  Too delicate really.  Dean had a feeling it wasn’t the strength of the metal that had kept Castiel bound.  Still, they couldn’t be comfortable, especially considering the blistering burns that ate through the angel’s forearms.

“We still got those bolt cutters?”

Between the two brothers they managed to sever the metal cuffs that had bound the angel.   The fast drop in temperature from the holy water had made them brittle, and they clattered to the floor with little difficulty.  Sam picked up one of the chains curiously, his fingers tracing over runes that covered the interior of each cuff.

“Can you make any of that out?” Dean asked.   Sam knew his way around most of the languages used for sigils, but this time he shook his head, looking perplexed.

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” he said, “It’s just like what was on the walls though.  It must have taken some serious juice to lock this guy down.”

“More juice than a hunter would have in his back pocket,” Dean guessed, “Walker got help from somebody.  You get a hold of him?”  Sam shook his head.

“Voice mail.”

The squeal of tires sounded in the parking lot outside, and from the aggressive roar of the engine Dean knew it wasn’t Chuck’s hatchback pulling into the lot. 

“Speak of the devil,” Dean muttered, rising, “Let me deal with this.”

“I’ll come with you,” Sam offered, but Dean shook his head, grabbing the shotgun off the desk.

“Stay with him,” he said, “I don’t want him disappearing on us.  I can handle Gordon.”

 Dean confronted the hunter from the front step, squaring himself in front of the door as Gordon hopped down from his truck with a look of raw fury.

“Walker.  You got here quick,” Dean observed suspiciously, “You get our message?”

“I got your message all right.  What the fuck, Winchester?” Gordon demanded, “Do you just crack open a shed anytime you get a goddamn hankering?  What happened to your _rules_?” 

“What happened to yours?” Dean shot back, “That’s a fucking _angel_ you had hogtied in there, Gordon, not some freak of the week munching on civilians.  What are you playing at?”

“I’m following my conscience, and the will of God,” Walker said, pulling up to his full height, “That ‘angel’?  He’s _fallen._   He’s no better than Lucifer himself.” 

“He hasn’t done anything wrong,” Dean insisted.  Not that I know of, he added silently to himself.

“Then I guess Heaven’s put a price on his head just for shits and giggles,” Gordon spat.  Dean faltered and Gordon grinned, mean and humorless. 

“They came to me in a dream,” he continued, “Paradise on Earth and in Heaven for the hunter that can kill or capture the Abomination, _Castiel_.  Your little rent-a-space was just the drop box.  They told me how to make the chains and everything.”

“Well he doesn’t look like an abomination right now, unless you count the fucking knife job you pulled on him,” Dean told him, “He’s not putting anyone in danger, and from what I can tell he’s in a human vessel.  That puts him under the same protection that I would give any innocent civilian.  It also means you violated your contract, so all agreements between us are void, Walker.”

“What are you saying?” Gordon’s eyes narrowed dangerously. 

“I’m saying get off my property before I come out there and make you,” Dean growled, “The angel stays here.”  He cocked his gun, the click of the safety sounding through the quiet parking lot.  Walker took a hurried step back towards his truck, hands raised in the surrender, but his face was hard. 

“Have it your way, Dean,” he said, “It’s no skin off my nose.  But you and you’re brother are about to be in much deeper shit than you realize.”

“Thanks for the warning,” Dean said without lowering his weapon, “We’ll be fine.  Now get.”

“I’m goin’,” Gordon told him, “but when Heaven decides to put a boot up your ass, don’t say I didn’t try to talk you out of it.”

Dean watched Walker start his truck and drive away.  He kept the shotgun ready until the roar of the engine was too far away to hear.  Well _that_ went well, Dean thought as he went back inside.

“He gone?” Sam was kneeling beside the still unconscious Castiel.

“For now,” Dean said, “Any change?”

“Look.”  Sam pushed up the sleeve of the angel’s coat.  Where before there had been mangled and charred skin, there was already a ring of new pink tissue around Castiel’s wrists.  It looked like the cuts on his chest were starting to close up as well, though they still oozed unpleasantly.  Dean figured they must have been spelled to prevent the angel from healing them.

“I’ll be damned,” Dean murmured, looking over the swiftly healing wounds, “Well whatever he is, he’s sure as hell not human.  He say anything?”

“Not a peep,” Sam told him, “I’m pretty sure he’s still out cold.”

“Alright.  I’m gonna take Mr. Comatose here back to the house,” Dean said, indicating the unconscious angel, “It’s more secure and we’re better outfitted in case shit hits the fan. When Chuck gets here send him up, then start the phone tree.  We’re going on lockdown until we know what the hell’s going on and I don’t want anybody unexpected popping in to shoot the breeze.”

“You gonna be okay on your own with him?” Sam asked, pulling out their contact lists.  Dean grinned as he tossed one of Castiel’s arms over his shoulder, lifting him up off the floor. 

“Oh yeah,” he joked, sagging under the angel’s weight, “We’ve _bonded._ ”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel is a very surprising house guest. Chuck's life is becoming even more stressful.

The drive back to the house was a short one.  Really, there was no need to drive at all, given that the distance between the two properties was only about a quarter mile.  Luckily, Dean had felt lazy that morning, or he would have been carrying an angel all 400 yards back to the house.  As it was the fifteen feet to the front door felt absurdly far without Sam there to spread the weight. 

“Either I’m more out of shape than I thought,” Dean puffed as he hefted Castiel up the stairs to the front porch, “Or you weigh a lot more than you should, buddy.”  Castiel didn’t respond, except to loll his head limply onto Dean’s shoulder.  Dean swore, and with a grunt tossed Castiel over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry, making it to the front door a little easier.

“Here we are,” he mumbled, while he fiddled with his keys, “The Winchester family mansion.”  “Mansion” was maybe a strong word for the old colonial style farmhouse tucked into the surrounding forests, but if Dean was the figurative king of the Winchester clan, then this house was definitely his castle.  He and Sam had grown up here.  Even when Dean had gone on his brief drifter phase in his twenties he had always found himself drawn back to the white washed siding and the wraparound porch of his childhood home.  It held what few memories Dean had of his mother, who had died before her time, and was still decorated exactly as she had wanted after his father had built it for her.   Dean still couldn’t help but relax, even as he lugged a wounded angel through the front door and dumped him on the couch, promising his mother’s ghost that he would get the bloodstains out before they set in.   

Dean pulled of Castiel’s shoes, tucking a pillow under his head.  Probably about as comfortable as he was gonna get, given the circumstances.  He took another look at the angel’s wrists and ankles and, sure enough, there was hardly a trace of the awful burns from before.  Just new, clean skin.  There was color coming into his cheeks as well.  That kind of recovery would have taken a human weeks, if not months.

“You must be on one hell of a multivitamin,” Dean joked for his own benefit.  Castiel of course remained unconscious.  Dean wondered when he would wake up, or if there was some kind of button he was supposed to press.

“I hope this isn’t some kind of ‘Sleeping Beauty’ curse on you or somethin’,” Dean told Castiel’s prone form, “Cause you came to the wrong place to find Prince Charming.”

Dean stayed close to the couch for another few minutes, talking to himself or the sleeping angel just to fill the silence.  Eventually he started to get fidgety, the dried blood and grime from the rescue starting to itch against his skin.  Dean’s eyes drifted to the bathroom door just off the living room.  It wasn’t that far.  Just a quick wipe down and he’d be good to go.  How far could the angel get?

“If leave you here to clean up a little, you gonna be a man about it?” Dean asked Castiel.  There was no answer, though Dean thought the pulse in Castiel’s throat might have strengthened a bit.  Dean made his decision, leaving his jacket folded over the coffee table as he slipped into the bathroom, closing the door quietly. 

One hot, wet washcloth later and Dean was feeling decidedly more human.  He tried not to think about the fact that the rusty flecks of blood and dingy grey clumps of soot in that now coated the sink had come off his _face._   Not that Dean was particularly squeamish or anything.  He stored monster blood and jarred guts for a living, after all.  But that storage unit had been a whole new visceral level of _yikes_ , one that Dean hoped he wouldn’t have to experience again anytime soon.  Of course, he had an angel in his living room, so his definition of ‘yikes’ was probably about to undergo a serious adjustment.  Just the thought of that made Dean want an aspirin, and he dug through the medicine cabinet for the small bottle of pills.  Shutting the mirrored door Dean jumped to realize he was no longer alone, and he spun to face a fully conscious, sparkling clean Angel of the Lord.

“ _Jesus Christ_ ,” Dean exclaimed, dropping the aspiring bottle with a clatter, “How did you get in here?”  Castiel examined him curiously.

“I am a celestial being,” Castiel explained as though Dean were being intentionally slow.    _Teleportation.  Check._ Dean thought to himself, suppressing a slightly hysterical giggle. 

“I suppose you are,” Dean admitted, “Uh…hi.”

“Hello…Dean.” The angel said his name carefully, as if tasting the sound and finding it to be pleasant. 

“I see you’re up and about,” Dean observed, “And you uh, got your voice back, it sounds like.”  It was a good voice, Dean couldn’t help but notice.  Rough and low; a little incongruous with the angel’s big blue eyes and soft brown hair.  Not unlike the one he’d heard in his mind back at the lot, but more…human. 

“I am much recovered,” Castiel agreed. 

“Yeah,” Dean continued, sneaking a peek at Castiel’s still exposed chest, where there remained only a series of thin white scars, “Um…how?”

Castiel quirked a brow, huffing with something like impatience.

“Oh.  Celestial being.  Right.”  Castiel nodded.  Dean could feel a kind of crackle in the air.  Maybe it was an angel thing.  It _was_ a little close in here, what with two grown men, one of whom was practically shirtless, pressed between the shower and the sink.

“Well, um, maybe it’s a cultural difference or something,” Dean stammered, “But for humans, being in the bathroom is generally considered a…private time.”

“I was aware,” Castiel informed him, “I apologize for intruding.”  Despite that apology Castiel made no move to leave, and instead continued to stare at Dean with a rather pressing silence.

“Somethin’ on your mind, Cas?” Dean asked.  _Where did ‘Cas’ come from_? He wondered to himself.

“You turned Walker away,” the angel stated, looking perplexed, “You could have easily handed me over to him.”

“You weren’t even _conscious_ ,” Dean said, appalled, “I wasn’t gonna toss you back to the sharks.”

“Indeed.  I was vulnerable,” Castiel rumbled, brow furrowed, “And you defended me from my torturer.”

“It was nothin’,” Dean said, his face heating, “Hunters are supposed to protect people, not slice up angels.”

“There may be consequences for your gallantry,” Castiel warned him plainly.

“We’ll deal with it,” Dean told him, attempting to take a step back and finding himself wedged between the angel and the formica countertop.  Castiel ignored what Dean was certain was pretty clear uncomfortable body language as he moved infinitesimally closer, eyes roving over Dean’s face with no sign of self-consciousness.  Dean was doing his best to keep his breathing steady and his heart rate down as the angel inserted himself shamelessly into Dean’s personal space.  His blue eyes were solemn and his mouth was pink and dry and Dean found himself licking his lips unconsciously.  For Christ’s sake he was only human, he remembered what those lips felt like, and Castiel was staring him down like he was about to pin him to the counter and have his way with him.  Castiel opened his mouth to speak and Dean wasn’t sure if he expected a condemnation or a benediction. 

“Thank you.”

Dean opened his eyes, which he hadn’t realized he’d closed, and Castiel was looking at him just as somberly as before.  Dean laughed at the anticlimax, moving forward to push past the angel as he ran a hand through his hair. 

“Dude I told you, it was nothi-“  Dean was struck with a peculiar _déjà vu_ as a pair of strong hands gripped the back of his head and tugged him down to meet a pair of soft dry lips, though there was nothing chaste about Castiel’s kiss this time around.  Castiel pressed forward and Dean felt the counter digging into his spine yet again as a noise of shock that sounded too much like a moan burst from the back of his throat, leaving his mouth open for Castiel’s fearless tongue.  The angel’s mouth was wet and slick and there were hands teasing at the strip of skin between Dean’s sweat dampened t-shirt and his low slung jeans and waitasecond….what exactly was going on here?  He wrestled momentarily with the events of the last few minutes, his thought process being interrupted by a very forward Angel of the Lord.  _An Angel of the Lord has his tongue down my throat._   Christ Almighty.  The hands tickling at his waist slid around to cup his ass and _that_ was enough to drag him back to the present.

“Whoa,” Dean finally managed to wheeze, pushing against Castiel’s chest with a firm hand, “Whoa, just…hold on.  _What_ in the _hell_ are you doing?”  

“I was under the impression that intercourse was considered pleasant for humans,” Castiel muttered, head tilted in uncertainty, “I thought it would be an appropriate method of showing my gratitude.”

Dean had to take a moment to himself.  He massaged his temples with one hand and tried to wish away his raging hard-on. 

“Dude you’re not the hot chick a Jason Statham movie,” Dean groaned finally.  Castiel only looked more confused.

“Just because I’m helping you doesn’t make you obligated to have sex with me,” Dean tried to clarify. 

“I wasn’t feeling…” the angel began, then Castiel’s eyes brightened with understanding. 

“Oh, I see,” he said, “You are not interested in engaging in sexual activities with me.  You don’t find me attractive.”

“I didn’t say that,” Dean said quickly.  Jesus what was wrong with him? “I think you’re very…attractive.”

“Thank you,” Castiel said with a half smile, “I did try to pick a vessel that was aesthetically pleasing.  But if you find me attractive…why don’t you want to have sex with me?”  He looked very troubled at this, mouth forming what someone less manly than Dean would call a pout.  _Christ_ , leave it to Dean Winchester to hurt an angel’s feelings by _not_ making them have sex with him.

“Dean?  I’m here!  You alive in there?”  Dean had never been more grateful to hear Chuck’s voice on the other side of a bathroom door.

“Dean?” Chuck must looked concerned as they emerged from the cramped bathroom, “Is everything okay?  Do I need to call Sam back-“  He paused as Castiel loomed over him.  Dean jumped.  He hadn’t even seen the angel move. 

“You are a prophet of the Lord.”  Castiel’s eyes were like dinner plates.  Dean wasn’t sure if the angel was about to chant an exorcism or cry tears of relief.  Chuck was looking even more uncomfortable than usual. 

“Um…yes?” He ventured, “I mean I get visions and stuff sometimes, I guess you could call me a-“

“Do you have large knife?” Castiel asked Dean suddenly, “Perhaps from the kitchen?”

Dean thought Chuck was going to faint dead on the floor. 

“That depends what you want it for,” Dean said cautiously.  Castiel huffed his annoyance and pushed past Dean, clearly going to find a knife himself if Dean was going to insist on being unhelpful. 

“Hey!” Dean called, following Castiel down the narrow hall, “What are you gonna do?  ‘Cause if you’ve got some weirdo prophet vendetta you’ve got another thing-“ Dean’s words died in his throat as he entered the kitchen just in time to witness Castiel plunge a steak knife dead center in his abdomen. 

“Coming,” Dean finished lamely, unable to process what he was seeing.  Castiel was carving across his belly like a Halloween jack-o-lantern, nothing on his face but impatience as blood and bile poured onto the kitchen floor.  Dean was fairly certain he was going to be sick.

“Dude,” Dean asked, a little woozy, “What the _fuck_ are you doing?”

Castiel ignored him, tossing the knife aside to _reach inside his chest_ _and pull out a huge fucking chunk of rock._ No fucking wonder he’d seemed heavy earlier.  He was literally a stone too heavy, to borrow a phrase from Tamara.  Dean closed his eyes and tried to take deep breaths, imagining he was anywhere besides this kitchen with an angel casually spilling his guts on the floor so he could grab a stone tablet that he _apparently_ had been storing in his gut like some kind of psychotic kangaroo.  Yeah it wasn’t working very well. 

“Dean.”  He opened his eyes hesitantly, widening them as he took in the perfectly whole angel before him.  Castiel sure as hell didn’t look like had just filleted himself.  His clothes didn’t even have any blood on them.  If he weren’t still holding the offal covered rock in his hands, Dean would have been convinced he had just had a disturbingly vivid hallucination. 

“Are you all right?” Castiel asked him with mild concern. 

“Yeah,” Dean said, voice cracking slightly, “Yeah I’m good.”  Castiel nodded and proceeded back to the living room.  Dean followed in a state of shock.

Castiel dropped the tablet in front of a petrified Chuck, who was eyeing the blood soaked stone as if it were about to explode. 

“Can you read this?” The angel asked urgently. 

“No! I-well, actually…kinda,” Chuck admitted, as though he didn’t quite believe it himself.  Dean thought Castiel might actually burst into a hymn of praise or something.  The slam of the screen door made them all jump as Sam walked into the living room, two duffle bags full of supplies from the office and eyes bouncing back and forth between the very healthy looking angel and the gore stained tablet sitting on the living room coffee table.  Dean almost had to laugh as Sam looked at him in unbelievable confusion. 

“Did I miss something?”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get stressful when Castiel's former boss shows up.

Castiel studied Sam curiously. 

“I recognize you,” the angel observed at last.  Sam blushed a little under the Castiel’s scrutiny, dropping his bags by the door.

“Uh yeah,” he said, “I’m Sam.  Me and Dean pulled you out of Gordon’s cage.  …We’re brothers, in case you didn’t know.”  Castiel’s face became marginally less serious, what Dean was guessing passed for a smile by his standards. 

“Yes, I remember now,” Castiel confirmed, “You have my gratitude Sam.  I may have formed a profound psychic bond with your brother, but I am nonetheless grateful for your role in my liberation.”

“No problem, I guess,” Sam said, raising his eyebrows at Dean.  _Psychic bond?_  

“I need a drink,” Dean declared, “Chuck?  You look like you could use a drink.”

“Definitely,” Chuck agreed, “Like, seven.  At least.”  Castiel frowned.

“This is not the time to imbibe,” he rumbled, following Chuck and Dean into the sunny yellow kitchen with Sam close behind, “There are many things at stake, and we must hasten-“

“Okay hang on,” Chuck interrupted, unusually forceful, “I just got here, I have no idea what’s going on, and some weirdo dressed like a tax accountant is calling me a prophet and throwing blood covered rocks at me.  It’s all very stressful, and I don’t think I’m the only one here who would enjoy a little backstory.  I mean, what _are_ you?”  This last question was addressed to Castiel, who looked mildly affronted.

“I’m an Angel of the Lord,” he said, with the irritation of one tired of repeating himself.

“Actually,” a new voice spoke from the kitchen doorway, “That’s a little debatable right now.”

Dean swore for a second Castiel looked _scared_ , and given that the guy just carved himself up with a steak knife without blinking an eye, Dean figured that must mean the new addition to their conversation was pretty bad news.  The stoic mask slipped right back on and Castiel greeted the newcomer coldly. 

“Zachariah.”  Dean turned to face the new threat, but the paunchy corporate douche bag in front of them didn’t really seem to coincide with Castiel’s reaction.  The new angel must have had some serious mojo tucked under that stuffed shirt, because if Dean had had to guess he would have said the guy was one expense account scotch away from keeling over. 

“Castiel, it’s been too long,” Zachariah returned his greeting, “Still trying to misinform the humans I see.”  His gaze fell on the occupants of the room, and for a minute Dean felt like a canary being stared down by a housecat.

“Who are you?” Sam demanded, the trusty shotgun back in his grip. 

“Please, you could hurt yourself with that thing,” the angel said with mock concern.  Dean watched Sam drop the gun with a yelp as it began to smoke, turning red hot on the kitchen floor.  This guy had just officially made Dean’s shit list. “I’m just here to speak with my employee.”

“I am no longer I your service,” Castiel growled, and Zachariah smiled with contempt.  Dean didn’t like that smile.  He didn’t like look Zachariah was giving Castiel, and he definitely didn’t like this guy strolling into his house like he owned the place.

“Don’t I know it,” he said sadly, “Pink slips can be pretty rough, but that’s what happens when you steal from the ‘company’.”

“Dude,” Dean whispered, “You got _fired_ from Heaven?”

“I…resigned,” Castiel mumbled, looking ferocious.

“It was more of a ‘you can’t fire me I quit’ sort of thing really,” Zachariah told them, “And let me tell you, he threw quite the temper tantrum on his way out.  Said all sorts of hurtful things about his superiors.”

“You were planning to destroy _everything_ our Father created,” Castiel objected, “Was I intended to ignore that knowledge?”

“If you’d been doing your job right, then _yes,_ ” Zachariah continued, then, addressing the rest of them, “We’ve got some kind of delicate operations in progress upstairs, so when Castiel here started making a fuss, we had to cut him loose.  Business, am I right?”   

“And by operations,” Dean ventured. 

“The End Times,” Zachariah supplied, as if discussing an unfortunate merger, “It’s been in the works for a while now.  Unavoidable really.”  Dean nodded, accepting that the angel, and apparently most of the residents of Heaven, were had gone totally off the reservation.

“Okay…so if Cas was out of your hair,” Dean asked, “Why did we find him trussed up in a puddle of his own blood?”

“Well,” Zachariah laughed, “After he was gone we noticed we’d lost a rather important artifact from the Heavenly vaults.  Besides, you don’t exactly get to ‘resign’ from Heaven.  So we looped in a few humans with useful skill sets, set them up with a few new binding sigils, and sent them on their way.  A most dangerous game, huh Castiel?”

Castiel’s jaw clenched, and Dean knew he was reliving his captivity.  However brief it may have been, Dean had seen the angel’s face while he was in those chains, felt his pain, and he knew it wasn’t a feeling to be forgotton.

“You son of a bitch,” Dean cursed, unconsciously stepping a little in front of Cas, “You let Walker carve him up like that?”  At the mention of the hunter’s name Zachariah smiled, in a way Dean could only describe as _fond._

“Ah yes...Gordon.  Now there is one dedicated servant of Heaven. But talk about delusions of grandeur!” the angel chuckled, “I _may_ have let him make the assumption that I fall rather high on the celestial chain of command.  The top, as a matter of fact.”

“Blasphemy,” Castiel spat, lip curled in disgust. 

“Maybe,” Zachariah admitted, “But then I’m not the one who’s gonna end up with his wings nailed to the gates of Heaven.  Nope, they’re saving that one just for you, Cassie.”  Castiel paled, and Dean guessed that Zachariah wasn’t speaking metaphorically.

“So you fed Gordon a line of crap about the Will of God, let him think he was _special_ , and sent him off on head hunt,” Dean spat.

“Oh, Gordon _was_ special,” Zachariah corrected him, “We reached out to a dozen of the more… _spiritually inclined_ hunters out there, and dear old Gordon was the only one to actually make the catch.  We had Castiel all wrapped up and just waiting for annihilation until you two _monkeys_ went and let the cat outta the bag.”

“You know I’m startin’ to feel better and better about that decision,” Dean muttered.  Cas was a little stiff, maybe a little eager to violate Dean’s personal space, but this guy was a _dick._

A hand curled around Dean’s bicep, and the minute their skin met he could feel every ounce of Castiel’s dread.  Apparently their psychic connection had not been lost with the return of the angel’s voice. 

_You must distract Zachariah.  If I cannot banish him, he’ll destroy us all._   In his mind’s eye Dean could see the flash of burning white light obliterating them all while Zachariah twirled the tablet in his hands with a smirk.

Dean tried to keep his face even, despite the surge of panic that Castiel’s words had set off.  _Okay._ He did his best not to fidget as Castiel’s hand slid into his back pocket, lifting the Swiss Army knife that Dean kept there out of habit.

“Alright Zach,” Dean began brashly, “You’ve got big plans upstairs, and you need your rock back and Cas outta the picture.  What’s in it for us?”

Zachariah sputtered, caught between a chuckle of contempt and a gasp at Dean’s sheer audacity. 

“What’s in it for you- how about I don’t _disintegrate_ you and spread your particles across the cosmos?”

“Come on now,“ Dean swaggered forward a few steps, handily blocking Cas from Zachariah’s view, “We’ve got the potential to be a major pain in your ass.  What’s it gonna look like upstairs if old Zachariah can’t even talk down a pair of hairless apes and their pet prophet?”

“Hey!” Chuck interjected, but Sam elbowed him into silence.  Dean shot him a grateful smile.  Sam always knew when Dean was talking out his ass, and he trusted that there was a plan in motion here.

“On the other hand,” Dean continued, “We’re both hunters, same as Gordon.  It’s not our fault he couldn’t tie Cas down properly.  But here’s the guy you want, safe and sound, ready for you to pluck his feathers or whatever.  Just give us the same afterlife insurance you offered the others, and we can all walk away happy.  Hell, we’ll even toss in Chuck.  I hear he’s useful for Heavenly decoding stuff.”

Zachariah was stare was a mixture of impressed and irritated, but it was focused, which was all Dean needed. 

“Are you done?” Zachariah sneered at last.

“I don’t know,” Dean admitted, “Cas? How was that?”

“Perfect.”  All heads turned to the angel just in time to see him smack his hand against a fresh sigil painted on the wall.  Before the resulting light whited out his vision, Dean caught sight of the drip of blood down Castiel’s forearm.  _That guy just never gets tired of slicing himself up._  

Forearm tight over his eyes, Dean heard Zachariah curse his outrage before the sound and the light were abruptly cut off.  Dean opened his eyes to find the kitchen as it had been moments ago, albeit lacking one pompous angel.  Sam and Chuck looked relieved, but Castiel didn’t waste any time celebrating their success.

“He’ll be back.  Can this location be fortified?” the angel asked Dean urgently.

“Uh..yeah.  Yeah,” Dean stammered, “We’ve got a bunch of stuff in the lot ready for emergencies.”

“Then do so,” Castiel ordered, “I can show you how to ward against angels before he returns.”

“Cas-Castiel, wait!  Hold on a second,” Dean said, grabbing the angel’s sleeve, “What’s going on?  Who the hell _was_ that?”

“There’s no time.  We must-“

“Heaven has a price on your head and there’s a blood sigil on the wall of _my mother’s kitchen_ ,” Dean growled, “Make time.”

For a minute Castiel stood his ground, and Dean was reminded that the creature in front of him was not in any way human.  Then Castiel sighed, sagging slightly against the kitchen counter, and Dean figured maybe he was a little human.

“In one sense,” he began, “Zachariah is correct.  Though I retain my Grace, I am no longer an angel in the eyes of Heaven.”

“So when Gordon said you were like Lucifer-“

“I am _nothing_ like him _,_ ” Castiel cut Dean off fiercely, “Lucifer’s fall was the result of vanity, and hatred of my Father’s creations.  I fell for the exact opposite reason.’

“Your old boss said they were working on the ‘End Times’,” Sam remembered.  The angel nodded, his face grave.

“Zachariah and his…directors…they intend to begin the Apocalypse on Earth,” Castiel informed them, “I learned of this, and when I couldn’t stop the proceedings in Heaven I chose to fall in order to fight their plans from here, perhaps by attempting to warn humanity of their efforts.”

“And how did that go?” Dean asked.

“Poorly,” Castiel admitted, “I was joined by a friend, who had managed to steal this tablet before they fell themselves.  They left it to my keeping, and I was attempting to find a prophet to translate it when I was captured.”

“What’s so special about that piece of rock?” Dean inquired. 

“It’s the physical Word of God,” Castiel said, “Written on the same slab as your Ten Commandments, though its contents are far too volatile to be revealed to the masses.  Most angels don’t even know of its existence.  I don’t know how Anna found it, or managed to remove it from Heaven.”

“Anna?” Sam asked quietly, “She was your friend, right?  What happened to her?”

“She is dead,” Castiel said bluntly, “Walker was not the only hunter sent after us, and despite his archaic restraining methods, it would appear he was one of the more merciful of the lot.”

There was an awkward pause following Castiel’s answer, as if none of them were certain if condolences needed to be offered to the stoic angel.

“So,” Chuck broke the silence, clearing his throat, “How does me reading this uh, tablet, help with stopping the Apocalypse?” 

“Simple,” Castiel said, “If you can decode it, the Word of God will give us instructions on how to seal Heaven, and save the human race from extinction.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! This chapter was super talky. Stay tuned! There should be some...ahem...catharsis in the not too distant future. I'm loving the feedback! Thanks!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A quick family meeting, and a quick something else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow! sorry for the delay on updating! Here's a nice long chapter to make up for it! All your reviews are making my day, seriously.

“Seal Heaven,” Sam repeated uncertainly.  Castiel nodded patiently, apparently growing accustomed to the fact that humans needed to have things repeated to them in order to understand them.  Chuck was ignoring them all in favor of studying the tablet curiously, like a kid with a cereal box puzzle. 

“So we slam the Gates, and then what?” Dean interjected, “What happens to the afterlife?  No hell below us, above us only sky?”  This time Castiel shook his head, a frown creasing his forehead. 

“Sealing Heaven would have no negative effect on human souls,” Castiel explained, “Worthy mortals would still have free passage to Paradise, and Hell would remain unaffected.  No, the spell I hope to find would simply prevent the angelic Host from leaving Heaven, thereby severely limiting their influence on humanity.”

“And this will stop the Apocalypse,” Sam concluded. 

“It would delay Zachariah’s efforts significantly,” Castiel confirmed, “For at least a few thousand years.  If my Father did not intervene by the end of that period, than I would be forced to accept that it is his will for humanity to end.”

“What I don’t get is why God hasn’t already chimed in,” Dean wondered, “Like, if he wants the Apocalypse, why aren’t we all getting brimstoned right now?  And if he doesn’t, why is Zachariah still douching the place up?  It’s not like he doesn’t have the juice to make himself clear, right?”

Castiel looked conflicted, and Dean almost regretted bringing the issue up.  Looks like Dean and Sam weren’t the only ones in the room with Daddy issues. 

“I…my Father is what you might call…absent,” Castiel muttered at last, “Heaven has not acted on the active will of Jehovah since the turn of the twentieth century.”

“So God’s just…gone?” Sam sounded crestfallen, and even Chuck was looking up from the tablet with the expression of a kicked puppy.  Dean wished he could be surprised, but he had seen too many monsters, human and supernatural, to believe in the “Benevolent God”.  Castiel’s next words held traces of bitterness, and the familiar tang of abandonment that Dean knew all too well.

“I…don’t know,” the angel admitted, “When I Fell, my intended mission was to find him, and make him intervene.  To give his children the guidance they needed.  I failed.  Utterly.”

“So it’s up to us,” Dean guessed.  Castiel bit his lip, in a surprisingly human gesture of nerves.

“Yes.  I…” he said quietly, “I can’t do it alone.  I’m asking for your help.  All of you.”

There was a beat of silence following the angel’s plea.  This was some heavy shit Cas had just laid down.  This was more than dealing with Chuck’s alcohol dependency and tryin’ to nudge Sam outta the nest.  This was bigger than going on four hours of sleep a night to keep the business running after Dad died.  This was a world ending, God defying, obliterating and scattering your atoms across the cosmos level of shit, with not a hyperbole in sight.  Castiel wasn’t giving any orders.  He was asking for Dean’s help, and he was giving them all the chance to walk away, right now, if that was how they wanted it.     

“Cas…can I have a word with my brother?” Dean asked, “In private?”  Castiel deflated, but nodded.

“Of course,” he said, “I’ll just…step out.” 

“Thanks,” Dean said, “Chuck?  You better stay too.”  The prophet nodded, taking one of the kitchen chairs as Sam leaned against the high counter. 

Castiel vanished without a warning, but Dean could hear a slight shuffling in the living room that told him the angel hadn’t gone far.  Dean turned to his brother and his employee.  Business partner, really.  Hell, Chuck was pretty much family.  He’d been an essential cog in the family business since John died, and all prophetic powers aside, Dean liked the little weirdo.  Chuck and Sam both were quiet, waiting for Dean to speak.  Whatever sass he got during regular hours, when it came down to it Dean was the unspoken leader of their little ragtag army.

“Welp,” Dean began, crossing his arms over his chest, “We’ve got a decision in front of us, and I’m not gonna drag anybody into this who isn’t one hundred percent.  If we help Cas, and lose, it doesn’t look like we’re gonna get a slap on the wrist.  If we help and we _win_ , then things are gonna change, and whatever it looks like, good or bad, it’s on us.  So, talk.”

“I mean, Cas is talking about the end of the _world_ ,” Sam said, brow furrowed, “And Zachariah pretty much confirmed it.  So really there’s not much choice at all, is there?”

“There’s always a choice,” Dean insisted, “You’ve got plenty of options, and plenty of friends outside this business and I wouldn’t begrudge you a single one if you want to head out of here right now.  From what we’ve already seen, I’m guessin’ there’s no way this doesn’t get bloody.  If it was up to me I’d already be shipping you off as far away from here as possible, but you’re a grown man and I can’t _actually_ tell you what to do.”

Sam considered his words before looking back to Dean with a knowing eye.  The kid could always tell.

“You’re staying.” 

“…I’m staying,” Dean confirmed, surprised by the certainty of his own answer.  There were six billion people depending on the world not coming to an end, and Dean wasn’t going to stick his fingers in his ears and try to tune out the Apocalypse when he could do something.  It had taken him until now to realize it, but maybe Sam wasn’t the only Winchester who had procrastinated when it came to reaching their full potential.  Dean didn’t believe in all that destiny crap, but there was a difference between sitting back and just letting “fate” make your decisions and actually having it knock on your door and ask for help.  Besides, somewhere between pulling him out of Gordon’s hell hole and their little bait and switch with Zachariah, Dean had started trusting Castiel.  He respected the sacrifices the angel had already made and the fact that he was putting even more at risk, all for the sake of a bunch of humans who probably weren’t even going to appreciate it.  Dean _wanted_ to help Castiel, and he wanted Sam to understand why.  He knew by his brother’s expression that he did.      

“If you’re not going anywhere then neither am I,” Sam declared.  He rose to his full height, his body language daring Dean to try and talk him out of it.  Dean stared him down, just to remind him who was the older brother here, but then he grinned. 

“Yeah that’s what I figured,” he admitted, then turned to the nervous prophet, “How about you Chuck?  We need you for this, but we’re your friends and we aren’t gonna hold you hostage if you don’t really wanna be here.”

Chuck shrugged, tracing his hands over the inscriptions on the tablet. 

“I mean, this is kinda heavy for me,” he confessed, “I’m a pulp fiction author, and a pretty sucky one at that.  But my powers, all these visions and headaches?  It’s…I don’t know…it’s kind of a relief to know they have a purpose.”   

“It’s not gonna be another day at the office,” Dean warned.  Chuck laughed at that.

“Believe me man, I am scared shitless,” Chuck told him, “But I can go wait for the Apocalypse and drink myself to death, or I can do something useful and hang out with an _angel_.  It’ll be great for my novel.”

Dean huffed a laugh as well.  “Alrighty then,” he concluded, “I guess we are officially on Team Stop the Apocalypse.”

“Facing down the Host of Heaven,” Chuck mused, eyes already back on the tablet, “Not exactly where I thought we’d end up when the lines were drawn.  Very compelling though.  Have you guys got a notepad or something?”  Sam started digging through the kitchen drawers until he found Chuck a clean yellow legal pad. 

“This is way above our pay grade,” Dean mused.  Sam lips quirked up in a slight smile as Chuck started scribbling notes in a cramped scrawl.

“Maybe that’s a good thing, Dean.”

“Maybe,” Dean agreed, “But if we survive this fiasco you are definitely asking Tamara out.”

“Dean-“

“And settling down to have little half-Brit half-moose babies-“

“ _Dean-_ “

“And if me and Chuck aren’t at least _mentioned_ at the christening then you can count us out of any future family barbecues-“

“Shut up jerk.”

“You’ll thank me later, bitch,” Dean shot back, before calling into the living room, “Hey Cas!”

“Yes?”  The angel reappeared behind Sam, almost completely hidden by his brother’s oversized frame.  Sam shuffled to the side a little awkwardly as Castiel looked at Dean. 

“So what exactly do we need to do to keep these dicks out of our house?” Dean asked.  Castiel’s eyes grew round.

“You mean-“

“Yep.  We’re in,” Dean told him, grinning, “You wanna teach us those sigils or what?”

Castiel’s answering smile was almost unnoticeable, but Dean could see the tension drain from his shoulders as he realized he wouldn’t be going at this alone.

“The sigils can wait,” he said, straightening, “We should first fortify the house.  There are certain wards that, once placed, will make it difficult for us to leave.  So if there are any supplies that need to be gathered from your other facility, now would be the time.”

“The office is already locked down,” Sam said, “I’ve got all the paperwork and stuff in those bags in the living room.”

“Then I guess it’s time to crack open some level A’s,” Dean said rubbing his hands together.  Level A units were free game when it came to defending the property.  It would be stupid to leave a dozen sheds full of emergency provisions and protective spell materials untouched when God alone knew how long they would be cooped up in here while Chuck translated the tablet.  “I’m thinking we should start with-“

“Actually,” Castiel interrupted, “If at all possible I need you to remain here.” Dean’s brow furrowed in a frown.

“But you just said-“

“Sam is free to go,” Castiel continued, “As is Chuck, though it would probably be best if he focus his energies on decoding the Word.  However there are some delicate wards I would like to set up that require the presence of the owner of the house and though you both live here, as the eldest brother I’m guessing that you, Dean, are technically the legal owner of the property.”

“Yeah, that’s true,” Dean grumbled, “I don’t want Sam to be out there alone though.”

“Dude, I can handle it,” Sam argued, “I mean, I’m not gonna get swamped by angel goons or anything, right?”

 “You won’t,” Castiel promised, “Heaven is very… bureaucratic.  It will take them some time to regroup before they attempt to lay siege.  I can give you additional protection as well.  May I?”  This last question was asked with a raised hand towards both brothers.  Dean nodded, and after a beat of hesitation so did Sam.  Castiel pressed his palm to both their rib cages, and there was a small flash of light and a temporary discomfort that Dean would compare to being handed a heavy object when you weren’t expecting it.       

“Whoa.”

“What was that, Cas?” Dean asked. 

“Sigils,” Castiel told them, “On your ribs.  I know it was a little uncomfortable, but you are both now invisible to angelic detection.  They will not even know that you have left the house, Sam.”

“Cool,” was Sam’s response.  Dean shrugged as well.  Could come in handy down the road. 

“Alright then,” Dean said, “I guess you head back to the lot and load up the Impala, I’ll stay and help Cas with the spells, and Chuck, just keep doin’ what you’re doin’.”  A distracted thumbs up from Chuck assured them that the prophet was down with that part of the plan. 

“What should I grab?” Sam asked.

“Hm…definitely hit up Tamara,” Dean instructed, “I know Bobby’s got a couple of cases of canned stuff for provision purposes.  Holy water, since it broke Cas outta those chains I figure it’s good for something.  I know Roy’s gotta unit basically full of rock salt, which always makes me feel better.  Cas, any weapons that’ll help?”

“Doubtful,” Cas rumbled, “As far as I’m aware only metals that were forged in holy fire can harm an angel.  With the exception of the shackles Gordon kept me in the only weapons made that way are angel blades, which humans can’t handle without harm.  I suppose a regular blade could slow us down, if you damaged our vessels enough.”  Well _that_ was an unpleasant image, but Dean swallowed and soldiered on.

“You heard the man,” Dean told his brother, “Actually Gordon has a level A full of vamp hunting stock.  I’m sure there’s some sharp machetes in there.  And Sam?”

“Yeah?”

“Maybe skim a little off the top of Rufus’s collection,” Dean added with a smirk, “I have a feeling we could all use a drink of the good stuff.”

Sam rolled his eyes but nodded, and he caught the keys to the Impala when Dean tossed them.  With a promise to return before it got too dark, Sam headed back to the lot, the Impala a diminishing rumble in the driveway.  Castiel once again turned his entire focus on Dean.

“So…wards?” Dean asked hesitantly. 

“Will you show me the upstairs?”  Castiel requested instead.  Weird, Dean thought, but he guessed upstairs windows needed sigils too.

“Sure.  Okay.  Chuck, you good?” Dean asked the engrossed prophet.

“For now.  You said Sam’s bringing liquor, right?”  Dean just laughed as he led Castiel to the stairs, stopping to peek over Chuck’s shoulder at his notes, which for the moment were seemingly nonsensical strings of symbols and letters.  Oh boy.   Dean trudged up the worn staircase with the angel close behind.  Castiel seemed very interested in the empty hallway, and even more interested in the first open door on the left.

“Is this your bedroom?”  Castiel asked, walking through without waiting for Dean’s answer.

“Uh yeah,” Dean told him, puzzled, “Why are you-“  Dean followed the angel into the messy room only to have Castiel pin him back against the door, knocking the wind out of him.  This guy seriously did not know his own strength.  Though going by the glint in his eye, maybe he _did._     

“I thought we were warding the house?”  Dean asked breathlessly.  Castiel waved his words away.

“The wards are already complete,” he informed him, “Your home is protected.  I merely wished to speak to you alone.” Castiel’s hand had already retreated a barely there pressure just above his stomach, but Dean had a feeling that he might have a difficult time should he try to move away from the wall. 

“Okay, shoot.”

“I believe I may have failed to make myself clear earlier today,” Castiel said, his voice low and his fingertips tracing lightly over the muscles of Dean’s chest through his t-shirt, “When I offered myself to you.”

“Cas, we talked about this-“

“I’m not attempting to force myself upon you,” Castiel continued, “I only wished to clarify that while I thought fornicating might express my gratitude for your assistance, my offer was rooted in a deep seated and self serving desire to know you carnally.”  Castiel’s hand shifted, drifting up until it was grazing the skin of Dean’s neck, his thumb resting in the hollow below Dean’s Adam’s apple.  The touch was light, _so_ light, but it was enough to wake up the wireless mind radio he and Cas had going on, and Dean was flooded with the warm and heady drip of Castiel’s desire. 

“Um…wow-“

“You expressed a similar desire, though you didn’t realize it, when you first laid a hand on me.”  Dean felt another flash of want, though this one had a different flavor.  With a jolt he realized Cas was replaying the emotions Dean had sent over their connection when he’d seen the angel’s face for the first time in the bloodstained shed.  Castiel’s spare hand was on his hip, tracing absent circles on the jut of bone there.  It was a passive touch, waiting for Dean’s permission, or his rejection.  Dean raked his gaze over Castiel’s face, dropping from his dark eyes to his open mouth and back.  He tried to focus, sorting through his feelings towards the angel, past and present.  Dean pressed a trembling hand to the curve of Castiel’s ribcage, sinking a little to rest against the slight indentation of the angel’s waist.  A fresh flood of arousal hit him, and Dean couldn’t tell if it was coming from him or Cas.  He was starting to wonder if the answer might be both. 

“I-we…Cas-“  Castiel’s thumb was still tracing circles on Dean’s hip, and it was like an anchor holding Dean to Earth while his blue eyes sent him off somewhere in space.  The hand on Dean’s neck adjusted, Castiel’s thumb landing exactly on Dean’s pulse point, and the floodgates opened.  _What the hell_ , Dean thought as he tugged the angel in by his waist and laid siege to that beautiful, wide, soft mouth. 

Castiel’s response was immediate and visceral.  Lips were parted, and for the second time that day Dean had an angel’s tongue mapping out his mouth, sliding across his teeth and curling against his palette.  Dean made a hungry sound in the back of his throat as Castiel pushed him hard into the bedroom door, all too conscious of the many _, many_ layers of fabric between them as he felt the first pressure of Castiel’s hips against his quickly hardening erection.   He impatiently tugged at the fabric of the angel’s trench coat, taking a black suit jacket right along with it and _Jesus_ how many layers was this guy wearing?  Castiel seemed to agree with Dean’s sentiment because Dean heard an impatient growl and then suddenly he was raising his arms as Castiel pulled his flannel and his undershirt right over his head, buttons be damned.  The angel didn’t waste any time getting his hands on Dean’s bare skin, his fingers digging into the ridges of Dean’s spine as his lips and teeth teasing at the sensitive skin of Dean’s neck.  For a long moment Dean forgot his vendetta against Castiel’s clothes as their chests pressed flush and the silky slide of Castiel’s tie against his bare skin proved to be one of the more erotic sensations of Dean’s recent memory. 

A sharp nibble just under Dean’s ear brought him back to the present and Castiel’s tie soon joined his coat on the floor.  He was working on the buttons of Cas’ shirt but the angel kept _goddamn_ _distracting_ _him_ , shoving his tongue down Dean’s throat and yanking the belt out of his jeans with excessive force.  Dean’s pants were around his ankles and his boots kicked across the room somewhere by the time he was finally yanking on Castiel’s starched white cuffs.  The angels batted his hands away, ramming Dean back into the door yet again, and grinding their lower halves together sinfully slow.  Dean’s dick twitched in his boxers as he felt the press of Castiel’s erection through his black dress pants.  Since his sleeves were apparently forbidden, Dean settled for tugging Castiel’s shirt out of the back of his pants, sliding his hands under the waistband of the angel’s slacks to grope the firm flesh of Castiel’s ass.  Cas seemed to like that, as he broke off tongue fucking Dean’s mouth to lean back into Dean’s grip.  Dean squeezed obligingly and Castiel let out a long rumbling groan, his head lolling back against his shoulders, exposing the long smooth column of the angel’s neck.  Only Castiel’s hands still holding him against the door prevented Dean from darting forward to taste that skin.  Dean wondered how long it would take Castiel to heal a hickey.

The angel’s iron focus returned and Castiel glared down at Dean’s black boxer-briefs as if he had forgotten Dean was still wearing underwear and the knowledge personally offended him.  Dean almost lost his balance as Castiel sank to his knees without warning, the tails of his shirt fluttering around his lean chest.  Dean’s jaw dropped as Castiel palmed him through his shorts and he realized what was about to happen.

“I didn’t-ah-didn’t know angels were allowed to do this kind of thing,” Dean huffed, wide eyed as Castiel tugged his boxers down sharply, hissing as his swollen cock was exposed to the cooler air. 

“I’m Fallen Dean,” Castiel smirked with only a hint of bitterness, “Iniquity is just one of the perks.”

Dean opened his mouth to reply but Cas gripped the base of his dick and sucked him down in one smooth, wet motion and all Dean could do was screw his eyes shut and concentrate on not moaning load enough to traumatize Chuck downstairs because _holy fuck_ Castiel’s mouth was unlike anything he’d ever experienced. 

In retrospect, Dean thought, what use _would_ and angel have for a gag reflex?  Castiel was taking Dean all the way in like he did it every morning for fun, his stretched lips meeting the top of his fist as he pumped at both ends.  Of course Castiel’s unexpected expertise didn’t mean Dean didn’t appreciate the glorious fucking suction all along his shaft, or the sweet pressure of Castiel’s soft palette against the head that made Dean’s hands tremble where they had fallen into the angel’s hair.  Dean wound his fingers tight in the soft chocolate locks and went along for the ride, thrusting his hips gently, knowing that Castiel had more than enough power at his disposal to stop him if Dean pushed too far.  It was weird, but of all the crazy shit that Dean had witnessed Castiel pull today watching him now on his knees was probably the most definitive proof that Cas wasn’t human.  Dean could tell you, he had given and received his fair share of blow jobs and there wasn’t a man or woman on Earth who could make it feel as good, or look as effortless, as the angel whose lips were currently wrapped around Dean’s cock.    

Castiel seemed perfectly aware of this, as he bobbed his head between Dean’s thighs with what Dean could only call a _smirk_.  He was taking Dean apart, and apparently getting off on it.  His free hand was exploring Dean’s lower half without shame, kneading the flesh of Dean’s ass, trailing teasing fingers along his perineum, stroking the hard muscle of his thighs and the sharp jut of his calves.  Dean tried to focus on not letting his ass slide down the door as his bowed legs quivered and shook under Castiel’s ministrations.  He was already embarrassingly close, and Cas must have been reading him through their mind mojo or somethin’ because he was speeding up, sucking hard on the head of Dean’s cock before sliding his lips down to meet his fist.  His eyes were practically black, the blue a halo at the edge of his irises as Castiel stared up at Dean, challenging him, whether to endure or to come Dean had no clue.  Turns out the point was moot as Dean muscles locked, and he cried out as he climaxed, tugging Castiel’s jaw forward reflexively, spurting hard into the angel’s mouth.  Castiel took it in stride, swallowing easily as he stroked Dean through his orgasm, licking him clean as Dean’s vision swam and he sucked heaving breaths into his lungs.

Somewhere between collapsing against his bedroom door and coming down from the high Dean wound up  flat on his back between the sheets of his double bed with a now wholly naked angel grinding against him like it was going out of style.  Dean got control of his hands and tried to contribute to getting Cas off.  It was the least he could do after _that._ Jesus Christ.

“Where- _shit Cas_ \- where in the hell did you learn to do that?” Dean panted as Castiel rutted against him like a wild animal, grinding down on his already oversensitive cock.

“I have observed humanity for thousands of years,” Castiel confided, his breath hot in Dean’s ear as he thrust his erection shamelessly against Dean’s hip, “Man discovered oral sex before he discovered _fire.”_

It was a damn’ fucking shame that Dean was pushing thirty five, because the gravel of Castiel’s ravaged voice at twenty-six would have been enough to put him back into the locked and upright position.  As it was it unleashed feral hunger that had him flipping Castiel, slamming him into the mattress with enough force to set the old innersprings screaming in protest.  With his mouth latched onto base of Castiel’s throat Dean felt every vibration of the angel’s ragged moan as he got a firm grip on his cock and started stripping him ruthlessly. 

“ _Dean,”_ Castiel sighed, planting his feet in order to thrust eagerly into Dean’s fist.  Rough hands tugged at Dean’s crown until Castiel could reach Dean’s mouth for a claiming, biting kiss that had Dean groaning against the angel’s lips.

With a hand clasped to the side of Castiel’s face and mouths practically sealed together, Dean reached for the crackle of their bond and _shoved_ , hitting Castiel with everything he had.  The angel’s spine bowed right off the mattress as he experienced firsthand all the pleasures he had given Dean; the hot, perfect suction of Castiel’s mouth on his cock,  shuddering from the scrape of Castiel’s nails down his spine, practically gagging for Castiel’s tongue down his throat.  Dean swallowed the angel’s groan as he spilled, hot and sticky over Dean’s hand.  The force of Castiel’s climax rippled back through Dean’s skin, and he saw stars for the second time that night as Castiel’s fingers tightened in his hair until the line between pleasure and pain was blurred beyond all recognition.

Dean’s vision cleared as Castiel collapsed underneath him, his eyes glazed with pleasure.  Dean rolled until they were lying side by side on the mattress,

“ _Wow,_ ” Dean admitted, limbs loose and mouth slack, “That is one _hell_ of a feedback loop.”

Castiel turned his head to stare at him, his blue eyes wide and owlish.  Dean grinned with hooded eyes. 

“I’m glad we were able to overcome our initial miscommunication,” the angel said.  Dean chuckled.  Turns out sex with an angel led to some interesting pillow talk.  _Sex with an angel_.  Oh God. 

 “If we’re still alive tomorrow night,” Castiel proposed casually, “I’d like you to fuck me.  Do you find that agreeable?”  

_What the fuck is happening to my life?_ Dean asked himself.  “Yeah, okay,” said his mouth simultaneously.

“Excellent,” Castiel quipped, sliding out of bed and back into his clothes, “I should see if I can be of any assistance in translating the tablet.”  Castiel leaned back over the mattress to claim Dean’s mouth in one more slow, wet kiss.  Dean was still too plain sated to do anything besides open up and let the angel have his way with him. 

“I’ll see you shortly downstairs.  I’m sure your brother will need help organizing supplies when he returns.”

“…Right.” 

Dean heard the door open and shut softly, telling him that the angel was gone and he was alone.  Dean exhaled.  It was a long, slow breath.  From top to bottom, today had been somethin’ else.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zachariah's not finished yet.

Dean emerged twenty minutes later, fully dressed and doing his best not to look like he’d just received the finest blow job of his life.  He could hear Chuck still at the kitchen counter as he made his way down the stairs, with the occasional murmur of Castiel’s whiskey baritone. 

“Normally I get a vision,” Chuck explained as Dean entered the kitchen, “And it’s like, _too_ much information.  I have to sort out what’s important, look for names and faces.  This is the exact opposite.   This is giving me two letters and asking me to guess the rest of the sentence.”  Castiel paused to glance at Dean, the barest trace of a smile twitching at his mouth.  The angel’s appearance was, of course, fucking _pristine_ , except for his mussed hair, which in retrospect didn’t even look that different than it had this afternoon.  With all the badassery Castiel had shown off so far today, Dean shouldn’t even be surprised that he had to the mojo to cover up a quick roll in the hay. 

Chuck glanced at the angel when he didn’t respond and his practically disappeared into his hairline as he watched Castiel’s eyes rove up and down Dean’s body triumphantly.  Dean shook his head minutely when Chuck opened his mouth to comment, and the prophet clammed up, blushing furiously.  Castiel seemed to jump at the motion, as if he had forgotten Chuck was there.  The angel tore his gaze away from Dean to return to his conversation.  

“I understand that this task is contrary to your typical style of thought process,” Castiel commiserated, “Perhaps I can be of some assistance.”

“Can you make my migraine go away?” Chuck laughed sarcastically.  Castiel squinted with a half a smirk.

“Of course.”  The angel touched two fingers to the prophet’s forehead and Chuck immediately sat a little straighter, eyes lighting up. 

“That’s a pretty neat trick,” he admitted, smiling tentatively, “Say, do you recognize any of these names?  They keep popping up.  Maybe if I know they’re real I can start on some kind of key…”

Dean shook his head and continued to the living room as he heard the screen door slam, announcing Sam’s return.

“Welcome back,” Dean greeted him, “Any surprises?”

Sam shook his head and dropped several large bags upon entering the threshold.

“All quiet,” he confirmed, “Freaky quiet.  You can’t even hear the cicadas out there.”

Dean frowned.  “You think somethin’s up?”

“I don’t know,” Sam admitted, “I didn’t see anything, but it was almost like everything alive in the area’s cleared out.  Like they know we’re gearing up for a showdown.”

That thought hung ominously in the air, before their mildly alcoholic employee broke the silence.

“Sam!” Chuck called from the kitchen, “Tell me you brought the booze, man!  This prophet stuff is _hard._ ”

“Keep your pants on!” Dean shouted back, “We don’t want you translating under the influence.”

Dean and Sam laughed as they heard Chuck’s muffled complaining and what sounded like Castiel’s mumbled agreement.  Dean wondered offhandedly whether or not Castiel drank, or if alcohol would even affect an angel.  He had a hankering to find out, but they had things to do first.

“Why don’t you take the food and sort out the kitchen?” Dean offered, shoving the large box of provisions back into Sam’s arms, “Chuck and Cas are geekin’ up in there over the tablet, I’m sure they wouldn’t mind another oversize nerd pitchin’ in his two cents.”  Sam’s brows shot up in interest.  Dean knew his brother was curious, but then he was always the scholarly one.  When all this was done Dean was kicking Sam out and not letting him back in the house until he had at least two Doctorates.  Sam was wasted filing paperwork at a storage facility.

“Yeah, okay,” Sam said hesitantly, already looking towards the kitchen, “You got this stuff?”

“What, amulets and swords?” Dean joked, “That’s my area of expertise.”

Sam laughed, then quirked a brow as he looked over Dean’s crown.

“Your hair’s a wreck,” he commented, with his trademark ‘Somethin’s going on here and I’m gonna find out eventually’ look.  Dean just shoved him into the hallway, red in the face.  Stupid intuitive little brothers. 

Instead of focusing on Sam’s bitchface when he caught sight of Castiel’s equally debauched hair, Dean focused on the loaded duffle bags in front of him.  There wasn’t all that much, honestly.  It wasn’t like the average hunter was gonna have much anti-angel weaponry, and Winchester Mini-storage was all about the average hunter. 

Sam hadn’t done to bad though.  Here was a nearly full spell kit, herbs and ingredients good for completing anything out of a run of the mill grimoire.  One bag was almost entirely filled with cartons of rock salt, which they could add to their already plentiful stock in the pantry.  Lining the bottom was a good selection of vicious looking hunting knives and machetes.  They were sparkling clean and razor sharp.  Dean belly stirred with unease as he lined them up on the coffee table, mindful of the business edge.  With any other hunter, weapons kept this nice would be a sign of good work and a clear head, but with Gordon, it smacked of obsession and sadism.  Dean shook his head, but kept the swords anyway.  A good blade was a good blade, no matter who the last owner. 

The last bag was a tangled mess of amulets and pendants.  Dean rolled his eyes.  He knew Tamara kept her shed meticulously organized.  His moose of a brother must have just grabbed some of everything and stuffed it in a bag.  He’d have to untangle them all before they could be of any use. 

Dean set himself up on the couch, and twenty minutes later he was mostly done.  Stamina increasing on one side, protection against fire and lightning on another, anti-demon wards back in the bag.  Call it a hunch, but Dean was willing to bet there weren’t any demons looking to get caught in the middle of an angelic Internal Affairs kerfuffle.  At least they had that going for them. 

It was pretty late, but Dean was used to weird hours with the business they were in, so he was surprised when his eyelids started to droop and a yawn made his jaw pop.  He was even more surprised when he realized he was no longer in his living room.  

“Hey there Dean,” a grating voice caused Dean to jump to his feet, which landed on white marble instead of worn carpeting, “Taking a little catnap?”

“You.”  Dean was overwhelmed by his surroundings.  It was like some nightmare Versailles, teal walls and gold candlesticks on a massive wooden table.  Everything was decorated with tacky marble angels and gold leaf. 

“Me,” Zachariah confirmed, leaning one elbow on an ornate fireplace mantel, like a smarmy country club member, “I thought you and I should have a little chat.”

“Cas banished you.”  Dean wasn’t sure how he got here, but he couldn’t see a door either.  Never a good sign. 

“Yeah, that was a cute little trick you two pulled back in the kitchen,” Zachariah congratulated him, “But now of course, I’m gonna make you suffer for it.”

“We locked you out,” Dean insisted, “The house is safe; you can’t touch us.”  Zachariah simply rolled his eyes.

“You’re still talking,” he said, shaking his head, “When you should be hemorrhaging.”

Zachariah snapped his fingers, and something inside of Dean _splintered._   He found himself on his hands and knees, hacking bright scarlet drops of blood in a spatter across the marble floors.

“Dean.”  Dean felt a flood of relief as he heard the flutter of wings that heralded Cas’ arrival.  The angel looked _pissed_ ; a silver blade that Dean had never seen sliding into his grip like it was a part of him.  

“Cassie, nice of you to join us,” Zachariah sneered, “Dean and I were just having a little _chat._ ” He curled his hand into a fist, and the blood in Dean’s mouth became a steady drizzle, gagging him as something in his gut bubbled in a way Dean knew it shouldn’t.

“This is a dream,” Castiel growled, “The damage you do to him here isn’t real.”

“Maybe not,” Zachariah agreed, twisting his fist even further and pulling a fresh gush of blood from Dean’s throat, “That doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy it.  Besides, I was just doing it to lure _you_ here.  So it’s a win-win, am I right?”

In a move that contradicted his flabby vessel, Zachariah struck like a viper, pinning Castiel against a sea foam green wall with a single hand around his neck.  Castiel tried to lash out with his blade, but Zachariah simple pressed against the angel’s windpipe until he dropped the sword, scrabbling at the vice grip on his throat.

“You’ve gotten rusty Castiel.” Zachariah’s voice was mocking.  “Or you would have known better than to dream walk when bigger sharks were in the water.”  Dean drew a rattling breath, and tried to stand as dark spots floated in his vision.  He looked up to see Castiel’s blue eyes boring into his over Zachariah’s shoulder.  Zachariah looked to see what held Castiel’s gaze, then rolled his eyes.  He slammed Cas back into the wall again, shaking him until the angel’s eyes threatened to roll back in his head. 

“Will you _look at me when I’m talking to you,_ ” Zachariah snapped, but Castiel wouldn’t look away from Dean.  Zach snapped his fingers again, and Dean felt himself crushed back to the ground, ribs cracking under some invisible weight.  Castiel made a broken noise as Dean wheezed. 

“You see, this is the kinda thing that really _ticks me off_ about you,” Zachariah tried to explain, “You form these little _attachments_ and it then you make stupid, _emotional_ decisions that _screw up my plans.”_ Zachariah punctuated each word of his last sentence with a hard blow to Castiel’s body.  From what Dean could see the weaker angel couldn’t take much more.  He was starting to see a ring of hot white light leaking around both his eyes, and a dribble of sparks was falling from his mouth, like Castiel was barely holding his Grace together. 

“Haven’t you learned your lesson yet, Castiel?” Zachariah whispered, just loud enough for Dean to hear over his own gurgling breaths, “Or do I need to teach you, the way I taught _Anna_?”

Castiel’s eyes snapped open wide.  They burned white, only this time, his Grace wasn’t leaking.  It was _furious._ Castiel clapped both his hands hard against Zachariah’s face, and the angel recoiled as if he’d been electrocuted, stumbling back to crash into the ornate dinner table.  Castiel dropped to the ground, scrambling for his angel blade, then across the floor to where Dean was still lying in a bloody heap.

“Cas,” Dean managed to rasp, “A little help…” He waited for a two fingered brush against his forehead, but instead he felt the warm press of Castiel’s palm.  Dean leaned into the touch and suddenly he could breathe again.  In fact, he could stand again. Well, almost.  He was in shock, sue him.  Dean stumbled a little as he got to his feet and Cas was there with a hand on his shoulder to steady him. 

“You’re asleep Dean,” Castiel informed him, “Nothing can hurt you here unless you allow it.”  Cas’ voice had an edge, like a shard of glass, a remnant of the damage Zachariah had done to his Grace.  Dean winced at the high pitched echo, but he got his legs under him. 

“Didn’t feel that way a minute ago,” Dean retorted, but he took the angel’s advice with a nod, “Thanks.”

“You little _maggot_.”  Shit.  Dean was back on his feet, but so was Zachariah.  “I am gonna tear you a _cosmos_ of a new one.”  The angel was approaching them, and he’d already proven once that he could overpower Castiel if left to his own devices.  But this was Dean’s party, apparently.  He reached into his back pocket, and this time he found what he wanted.  He flipped his favorite knife in his grip, handling it with the ease that came with years of practice. 

“Alright Cas,” Dean instructed, “I’ll hold ‘im, and you punch.”  Castiel missed the reference, but nodded that he understood the plan.  Dean stepped slightly in front of the angel and took on a fighting stance.  He didn’t know how to kill an angel, but unfortunately Dean moved in the kind of circles where you had to know how to kill a human.  What looked like a human anyway.  Maybe Dean couldn’t damage Zachariah’s Grace, but he could sure as hell slow down his vessel.

“Oh look, it can strategize,” Zachariah said snidely, “Did you two plan this during your little _rendezvous_ between the sheets?  Or maybe you’re just in tune now that you’ve both clocked in an orgasm.”

_Let him talk,_ Dean reminded himself, shuffling closer.  _Always let them talk._   Zachariah smirked, raising a hand, probably to smite Dean into oblivion.  Dean chose that moment to throw his knife.  It was a good throw, and it lodged in Zachariah’s shoulder, rendering his arm useless, as Dean had known it would.  Zachariah looked down at the spreading red stain on his crisp white shirt the way a human would a mosquito bite.  Dean heard the flutter of Castiel’s wings behind him, taking advantage of the Zachariah’s distraction. 

“What part of the last day made you think that would be in the least bit effective?” he asked, incredulous.  Dean answered his rhetorical question by jamming a second blade into the angel’s neck.  Being able to pull knives out of thin air fuckin’ _awesome._ Zachariah’s eyes widened, the blade jamming his Vessel’s spine, essentially immobilizing him.  It wouldn’t hold for long, but it would do the trick.

“Not much fun on the receiving end, is it?” Dean asked as Zachariah stared him down, “Cas?  Anything to add?”   Another flutter of wings, and suddenly Zachariah’s eyes lit up bright white as a silver blade pierced through the front of his chest.  

“That’s for my sister you sadistic son of a bitch,” Castiel uttered from behind the shocked angel, tugging his blade out of Zachariah’s vessel with a sickly squelch.  A sound like a gasp burst out of the mortally wounded angel, but the noise didn’t stop with the end of Zachariah’s breath.  It continued, rising in pitch and volume until Dean was clapping his hands over his ears to try and block it out.  Jesus, if Cas’ voice earlier had been sharp glass Zachariah’s True Voice was a fuckin’ power saw, and it was currently slicing into Dean’s skull.  The noise peaked at the same time that the white light of Zachariah’s Grace exploded, and even with his eyes shut tight Dean found himself totally sense blinded for a good minute.

When Dean’s vision cleared, it was to the sight of Castiel staring down at Zachariah’s fallen corpse.  Stretching out from either side of the body were the burned imprints of two enormous wings, black and ashen against the garish teal and white marble of the bizarre waiting room. 

“Is he-” Dean began.

“Dead?” Castiel returned, “Yes.  He practically said it himself: Dream walking is just as real as the waking world for an angel.”  Castiel was unreadable.  Dean could only imagine the confliction of killing the person you once looked up to.  Castiel had probably worked with the guy for thousands of years before he figured out what a dick he was.

“Is it over?”  Dean asked.  Castiel sighed.

 “No.  It’s only the beginning,” the angel informed him, brow furrowed, “We can discuss it further when you awaken.  Rest now, Dean.”

Two fingers brushed his forehead and Dean sank into a new dream, one with blood and light and black feathers.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean and Cas make sandwiches, and a new player enters the game.

Dean awoke to find his brother and an angel perched on the coffee table, staring at him like an exhibit in a zoo. 

“ _Jesus_ ,” he scowled, jumping, “Can a guy take a nap without getting skeeved on around here?”

“Dean it’s almost noon,” Sam told him, “You’ve been asleep for over twelve hours.”  The night’s activities came back to him in a flood of white light and adrenaline, and Castiel looked at Dean in concern as though he could hear Dean’s heart stuttering in his chest.  Which, in retrospect, he probably could.

“Sam found me this morning, keeping vigil over your dreams,” Castiel added, “I was explaining our confrontation with Zachariah.”

“Yeah, fucking douche totally inceptioned me,” Dean grumbled, “Wait.  You were watching me sleep all night?”  Castiel frowned, head tilting in uncertainty.

“Of course,” he said, “I don’t require sleep.  It was obvious that I would watch over you.  Your brother and the prophet as well, obviously.”  Sam just looked at Dean with a grin that said ‘You wanted to make friends with the angel’.  Dean noticed he was draped in the crocheted afghan that usually hung over the back of the couch, and judging by the amusement on his brother’s face, Sam wasn’t the one who put it there.  Dean opened his mouth to make a snarky comment, but Sam spoke up first.

“Really though, I just wanted to make sure you were okay,” Sam interjected, “Cas said none of it was real for you, but it sounded pretty brutal-“

“Yeah, Zachariah’s a real treat,” Dean cut him off, “But I’m all in one piece, Sammy.  Cas and I kicked his feathery ass.”  Dean tried to ignore the way Cas puffed up a little at his praise.

“Is he really gone?” Sam asked.

“Yes,” Castiel confirmed, “Zachariah’s arrogance ensured his destruction.  He assumed he would be able to trap me in Dean’s dream, but he never imagined we would defeat him.”

“Cool,” Sam concluded.

“Indeed,” was Castiel’s response.

“How’s Chuck doin’?” Dean asked, throwing the blanket back over the sofa and standing, “Any tablet revelations?”

“We were just going to check on his progress,” Castiel informed him, “When you’re suitably awakened you should join us in the kitchen.”

“Yeah, okay,” Dean agreed, heading upstairs.  One shower and a change of clothes later he felt like a new man.  Dean made his way to the sunny kitchen, ruffling his fingers though the spikes of his damp hair.  Chuck was still seated at the counter, and judging by the circles under his eyes he hadn’t moved since the night before.  The pages of his yellow legal pad were scattered throughout the kitchen, taped up with various symbols and words written and crossed out in different formations.  A few wrinkled pages were clutched in his hands, and his grip tightened as Dean came in to lean against the wall near his brother.

“Wow, big audience,” the prophet mumbled.

“Just give us what you’ve got Chuck,” Sam prompted, and Castiel nodded from his place across the counter.

“Okay, but it’s in bits and pieces mostly.”

Chuck cleared his throat nervously before he began reading from his sheets of notes.

“Behold, you have been created, Angels of the Lord, to serve Your Father in Heaven and His Will, and to-“

“Cherish his beloved, as he does cherish,” Castiel spoke over him, “This is already known to all angels.  What else?”  Chuck flipped forward a few pages.

“Uh…and the prophets shall read His Word and speak His Word and they shall be named Charles, Kevin-“

“Ignacio, Andrea, Shu-li,” Castiel continued again, “This is still common knowledge among the Host.  We must dig deeper.”

“I’ve got something about granting a human eternal life-“

“Not important.”

“Sounds pretty good to me,” Dean quipped, but Castiel silenced him with a raised eyebrow.

“Restrictions against wrestling humans-“ Chuck continued.

“That only applies to Gabriel.”  Castiel shook his head, as if remembering something funny.

“Only he who can face Death and think not for his own self can…something something…” Chuck petered out, “I haven’t gotten all of that figured out yet.”  Castiel’s head tilted in thought. 

“That phrase is not familiar to me,” he admitted, “It could be important.  Can you continue?”

“Uh, yeah, sure,” Chuck, scrubbed a hand against his stubble before leaning over the tablet once more. “Some lunch might speed things along,” he suggested timidly, eyeing the fridge and then the angel.  Dean laughed and made to step in, but Castiel acquiesced and began gathering sandwich ingredients with a familiarity that surprised Dean, given that he was pretty sure Cas didn’t eat. 

“I’m hungry,” Dean declared, looking to his brother, “You?”  Sam looked up from Chuck’s notes.

“Uh, yeah sure,” he said.  Dean ransacked the fridge, adding cheese and mustard to the existing gathering of roast beef, bread, and tomato Cas had going on the counter.  He also pulled out a few cold ones, popping the caps for Sam and Chuck, and setting one on the counter in front of a surprised Cas.  He took a sip of his own beer before joining Cas, where the angel was already applying mustard to six slices of bread with a butter knife, assembly line style.

“Where’d you pick this up, Cas?” Dean asked, reaching past the angel for the mayo.  Castiel shrugged. 

“It is hardly a difficult skill to apply meat and condiments to bread,” the angel said, layering cheese and meat between the thick slices of bread.

“Yeah,” Dean agreed, “But it’s kind of a human instinct, isn’t it?  I mean, do you guys actually need food?”  Castiel paused in his preparations, and Dean worried he might have broken some kind of angelic etiquette.

“No, we don’t,” Castiel admitted at last, “My…vessel.  I have access to some of his memories.  He used to make sandwiches for his daughter’s lunch.”

“Oh.”  Dean continued making lunch for him and Sam in silence while Castiel delivered a sandwich to Chuck.  Sam and Chuck were already in deep debate about some symbol or other when Dean slid a plate over to his brother, so he took his own sandwich and with a flick of his head led Castiel out to the front porch.  He and Cas were better off stayin’ out of the way and letting the prophet do his work.  Castiel assured him that the protections on the house extended to the edge of the garden, so Dean plopped down with his beer and his sandwich on the front steps, Castiel following suit uncertainly.  The front porch was probably Dean’s favorite part of the house.  It was one of the few places besides the kitchen where he could remember spending time with his mother.  John Winchester had built the porch, just as he had built the rest of the house, and Dean remembered spending warm summer nights curled up between his parents on the front steps, counting fireflies.  The house had kept them together after Mary had died, and had reunited Dean and Sam after John’s death ten years ago.

Dean paused his reminiscing to watch Castiel.  The angel seemed to understand the sacred nature of the porch, running his fingers over the graying wood posts that held up the stair railing.  Castiel had good hands, Dean mused, though he felt a quiver of guilt as he remembered that the hands didn’t really belong to the angel.

“What’s his name?” Dean asked around a mouthful of bread and roast beef.

“Who?”

“The guy you’re wearin’.”

“Oh.”  Castiel looked over his borrowed body with something like regret.  “His name was Jimmy.”

“Did he volunteer?” Dean tried to keep the edge out of his voice, but human possession wasn’t something he was raised to smile upon.  Castiel didn’t look angry at Dean’s question, though he couldn’t quite meet his eye either.

“I’m no demon,” Castiel explained, “Angel’s must have consent before they can take a Vessel, and I had Jimmy Novak’s.  He was…eager to serve, God and I was too full of purpose to care if he knew the consequences of his choice.  I wasn’t always who I am today.”  Dean nodded.

“You said he _was_ ,” Dean couldn’t help but note the past tense, “What happened?”

“When I Fell,” Castiel continued, “I offered him a chance to remain in Heaven.  He accepted.  As lonely as it is now without his presence, I’m glad he did.  I didn’t want him to share my fate.”

“So we slam the pearly gates and lock all those feathery bastards upstairs,” Dean ventures, “What happens to you?  Do you get reunited with your friend?”

“No,” Castiel said, “At least, I don’t think so.  As I am Fallen I will most likely be able to remain on Earth.  Eventually, without a connection to Heaven, my Grace will fade, and I will become mortal.”

“Just one of the guys?  Wow.”  Castiel smiled sadly, swirling his unnecessary beer in its bottle.

“I doubt I will ever be ‘one of the guys’,” he admitted, “One such as I is rarely destined to belong.”

“You’re doin’ okay here with us,” Dean argued.  Castiel huffed a laugh.

“I have brought the wrath of Heaven and the threat of an Apocalypse on your heads,” he pointed out, “That is hardly a strong foundation for human friendship.”  Dean shook his head, chuckling as well. 

“Dude, you think that’s bad, you shoulda been here when we found Chuck,” Dean told him.  Castiel smiled, less sad this time.  

“I would like to hear that story,” he said, taking a tentative sip of beer and looking pleasantly surprised.

“When we’re all done saving the world we’ll knock a couple back and let him tell it,” Dean proposed, “Always gets a laugh at parties.”  Castiel nodded in agreement and took a deep draught of beer.  They sat in companionable silence for a few minutes, Chuck and Sam’s muffled voices and the creaking of the old wooden slats the only sound to be heard.  Castiel’s eyes roved over the unkempt lawn, pausing at every unusual weed and bug too small for Dean’s vision.  For all his grand world saving plans, Cas really seemed to love the little things.  Like a good sandwich, or the bumblebee that flitted around his noggin before heading back out to the wilds.  Maybe it was the little things for Cas that made the whole planet worth dying for. 

“Cas, you sure gotta knack-“ Dean began, but suddenly Castiel stood, looking somewhere in the middle distance as he clapped a hand urgently on Dean’s shoulder.

“Do you feel that?” he asked.  A sudden, cold breeze swept across the yard, rattling the rusted weathervane in the overgrown garden and sending goose bumps ups Dean’s arms.

“I sure do,” Dean admitted, “Is that-“

“A completely random low pressure system, which has appeared in defiance of all naturally occurring weather patterns for the region?” Castiel supplied, “Yes.”

“Vengeful spirit?” Dean asked.  That was the only monster he could think of that could drop the temperature like that. 

“I wish,” the angel said, nodding towards the new adversary that had appeared in the yard, a gust of wind the only announcement of his arrival.  Dean swore as he recognized the figure.  Since when could Gordon Walker fucking teleport?

“Shit,” Dean cursed, rising to his feet and pulling the gun out of the back of his pants, “Do your wards work on psychopathic hunters?  Looks like Walker suped up before coming back for round two.” 

“That isn’t Gordon,” Castiel warned him quietly, his ethereal blade sliding into his grip as he eyed the vessel before him with wordless fury.  Walker turned to the angel, and with a nod of his head made it perfectly clear that Gordon was no longer steering that lifeboat.

“Castiel.”  The voice that emerged from Gordon’s throat was deeper, richer, yet somehow managed to chill Dean to the bone. 

“Raphael,” Castiel acknowledged, knuckles white on his sword, “What do you want?”

“The angel tablet returned to its vault in Heaven,” the angel answered, “And your wings on a spit.”

“Well he seems friendly,” Dean muttered, “Wait a minute.  Raphael?  Raphael the archangel?”  Castiel shot him a warning look, but Dean couldn’t hold back a smirk.

“We’ve really got you guys worked up, huh?”  Raphael hardly spared Dean a glance.

“Zachariah has proved himself incapable of handling this…situation,” Raphael drawled, “It’s been decided a firmer hand is required.”

“You mean we ganked his slimy ass and now you have to bust out the big guns,” Dean supplied, crossing his arms and squaring himself against the archangel.  Raphael quirked an eyebrow, and thunder rolled across the sky over the house, clouds black and ominous where before there had only been soft blue. The archangel’s full gaze turned to Dean, and he found himself taking an involuntary step backwards. 

“You’re choice of bedfellows is foolish, hunter,” Raphael sneered.

“I think that’s up to me to decide,” Dean countered, cocking his gun for his own benefit more than any actual harm it could do to the angel. 

“Your human weapons will do you little good,” Raphael confirmed, “Regardless, I am not here to harm you.  Yet.”

“That is very unlikely,” Castiel told Dean, not bothering to lower his voice.

“I am ‘God heals’, Castiel.  Those who follow His Will shall know my mercy,” Raphael turned to Dean once more, “I offer you one final chance.  In twenty-four hours time I will return, Dean Winchester.  You will hand over the tablet, and this _rebel_ , or I will raze your home to the ground, along with its inhabitants.”

“You will do no such thing,” Castiel declared, “Dean and his family are under my protection.”

“What he said,” Dean agreed.  Raphael smirked. 

“The protection of a Fallen angel against the entire Host of Heaven?” he intoned, “I’m _shaking._ ”  Raphael flicked his wrist, and a bolt of lightning hit not two feet in front of Dean’s feet.  Even through the warding the residual electricity raised the hair on his arms and ruffled Castiel’s trench coat.

“You have been warned.”  Gordon’s body was gone as suddenly as it had appeared; his footprints leaving two smoldering scorch marks on the lawn.  Dean whistled as the stormy skies cleared instantly.

“An honest to God archangel,” Dean murmured, “Too bad he turned out to be such a dick.”

“Raphael,” Castiel agreed, as though the angel’s name were enough to imply the depth of his abhorrence. 

“Looks like Walker took being a servant of Heaven to a whole ‘nother level,” Dean observed, “Probably his twisted dream come true.”   

“Gordon’s role in this saga is over,” Castiel said plainly, “His soul would have been obliterated the moment he assented to be Raphael’s vessel.”

Dean grimaced, wishing he could feel something besides vindication over the hunter’s fate.  The memory of the holy-fire chains around Cas’ wrists was enough to assuage the guilt. 

“We should confer with Chuck and Sam,” Castiel continued, “We have a new ultimatum, and very little time left to confront it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yikes, sorry i got a little behind on the updates! Probably about four more chapters to go, but don't hold me to that! As always, i adore your feedback.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Breakthroughs are made.

It was a long afternoon.  It was a long, freakin’ _humid_ afternoon, thanks to Raphael’s impromptu thunderstorm, filled with the irritating scratching of Chuck’s pen on that god-forsaken legal pad and the rustling of the living room curtains where Sam kept watch in case any more angels showed up.  Dean spent most of the day pacing throughout the house and making pots of coffee for Chuck, who seemed to be getting more jittery by the minute.  After the appearance of Raphael, Castiel remained close to the prophet.  When he wasn’t offering advice or explaining a Latin phrase he was staring out the kitchen window, his gleaming silver angel blade never leaving his hand.  The atmosphere was a bit tense, to say the least. 

Dean didn’t realize how late it was getting until he caught himself nodding off against the kitchen door frame.  He jumped, noticing Castiel staring at him again with a funny half smile.  Damn angel guarding his dreams. Dean headed into the living room, where Sam was still keeping lethargic watch over the front door. 

“I don’t think any more suited freaks are gonna be storming the castle tonight,” he commented.

“You never know,” Sam said, “It seems weird that we’ve only seen two angels this whole time.”

Dean yawned, absently flicking through the piles of talismans that were still on the coffee table.  Sam let go of the curtains reluctantly, leaving his gun on the sill.

“I dunno,” Dean said, “That Raphael guy seemed like he didn’t need an army to back him up.  Cas sure didn’t want to cross him.”  Dean spotted the small set of amulets he hadn’t realized he’d been looking for.  Totems for stamina.  Bingo.  He slid a plain copper pendant on a leather cord over his head, and sighed as the rush of fresh energy filled him. 

“Hey check this out,” Dean told his brother, slipping one of the amulets over Sam’s head.  Sam flinched then blinked rapidly, his shoulders visibly straightening.

“Whoa,” he exclaimed, “That’s got some juice.”

“I know, right?” Dean agreed, “No more two-thirty feeling.  The next time we see Tamara, if you don’t kiss her I’m gonna.  She’s got some quality bangles.  Here.”  Dean tossed Sam an additional necklace. 

“Slap that on Chuck,” Dean commanded, “The guy looks like he’s about to drop.  Cas can have one too if he wants.”

“He’ll wear it if it’s from you,” Sam mumbled with a smirk.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Dean frowned.

“You _know_ what I mean,” Sam countered, “How about you guys disappearing upstairs last night for twenty minutes, and Chuck hearing all your animal noises?  Or your little psychic love connection?  Or the fact that he’s _literally_ in your dreams?”

Dean squinted at his brother before cuffing him upside the head.  “You get any more sass in your tone and you’re gonna be snapping in a Z formation,” Dean growled, trying to keep the rising color out of his cheeks, “There’s nothing goin’ on.  He’s an angel of the goddamned Lord.”

“Uh huh,” Sam nodded, “Sure.  Any amulets in that pile that can help heal mental scarring?  I’m sure Chuck could use it after hearing you two go at it.” 

“Careful,” Dean warned, “You look any smugger and your face is gonna stick like that.  Then who’s gonna take Tamara to prom?”

The slap fight/wrestling match that ensued was probably not acceptable behavior for two men nearing their mid-thirties, but damn it Sam had it comin’.  Dean must have been getting old, because it took him nearly a full minute to get his giant of a little brother pinned. 

“Okay!Okay!” Sam wheezed from inside Dean’s headlock, “You win.”

“Damn straight,” Dean grunted, releasing him.  Sam tugged his shirt down and tried to tame his tangled mane before heading back into the kitchen.  He toyed with the two amulets in his hand for a minute, until Dean sighed in exasperation. 

“Christ, I didn’t actually hurt your feelings, did I?” he smirked.  Sam laughed. 

“Yeah, right,” Sam rolled his eyes, “Just…whatever’s _not_ going on with you and Castiel…it’s a little weird for me, but it’s not the dude thing, okay?  I mean, I haven’t been skeeved out by that since you were eighteen and I walked in on you and Aaron the delivery guy-“

“We don’t talk about that, Sammy,” Dean squeaked, face hot.

“Right,” Sam agreed, determined to have this awkward-ass talk, “But…yeah.  No problem here, okay?  You guys do, or don’t do, whatever you want.”  There was a nice uncomfortable pause there, where Dean knew Sam was secretly congratulating himself on a healthy communication job well done. 

“You know, this has been a really great talk,” Dean simpered, “I can’t wait until ten years from now when Cas and I are surrounded by a gaggle of little adopted babies and I can share this memory with them-“ 

“Bite me, Dean.”  Dean got in one more good hair ruffle before Chuck called to them from the kitchen. 

“Guys!  We’ve got something!”  Both brothers scrambled back into the kitchen where Chuck and Cas were huddled over the tablet.  Chuck was writing fast, his hand shaking in excitement.

“What is it?” Dean asked.

“It’s a recipe!” Chuck exclaimed.

“What?” Sam asked, brow furrowed. 

“’Only he who can face Death and think not for his own self can complete the ritual and seal the realm of angels’!  Then it lists a basic chant and a bunch of ingredients.  It’s just a plain old spell,” Chuck said in disbelief, “We’ve got everything we need right here except-Oh.  Shit.  Never mind.”

“What is it?” Sam asked, peering at the tablet over Chuck’s shoulders as if it might reveal its secrets if he stared hard enough.  The prophet looked wearier than Dean had ever seen him, and that was saying something. 

“We’ve already got everything we need,” Chuck repeated, “Except for the last ingredient.  …An archangel’s Grace.”

It was like all air was sucked out of the room.  There was only one person in the room who had even the slightest chance against an archangel.  Everyone’s eyes immediately went to Castiel, who was staring resolutely at the floor, his jaw set in absolute despair. 

“Well,” Sam attempted to break the silence, “We know where we can find at least one archangel tomorrow.”

“Raphael,” Castiel agreed.  He still wouldn’t look up.  Dean hesitantly took a hold of Castiel’s wrist, his fingers wrapped around the angel’s pulse. 

 _Can you do it?_ Dean asked silently, using their bond, _Could you take on Raphael and win?_

Castiel met his gaze then, his eyes deep, liquid, and yet beyond human tears.  _No._

“Guys?”  Sam and Chuck looked at them, waiting to hear how they were going to proceed.   They hadn’t heard Dean and Castiel’s silent exchange, and didn’t know the bitter truth.  Castiel straightened beside him, and even without touching him Dean knew what the angel was about to say. 

“I will face him.”

“Cas-“

“We must prepare,” Castiel continued over him, “If I can defeat Raphael, we will have to complete the spell quickly, before his forces have time to retaliate.”

“Uh yeah okay,” Sam said quickly, “Chuck and I can take the tablet and get the other ingredients together.”

“Excellent.  Thank you.  Dean?”  Castiel turned to him, “Will you assist me upstairs?”

“Yeah,” Dean said, throwing his brother a glance, “’M right behind you.”

“Dean-“ Sam began as Castiel made his way upstairs.

“Everything’s fine Sammy.  It’s like we just talked about,” Dean said pointedly, and Sam nodded, “Help Chuck.”

“Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

When he finally caught up with Cas the angel was already on his bed, shirtless and tugging on his belt like there was a time limit.  Which now, Dean supposed, there was. 

“We agreed,” Castiel reminded him, sliding the black leather out of its loops, “Are you still willing?”

“I-I mean-yeah,” Dean stammered as Cas yanked his black slacks down his thighs and kicking them off the edge of the bed, “Is this what you really want right now?”

“I’m most likely going to die tomorrow,” Castiel said, shedding his underwear, “Get over here please.”

Dean wasn’t about to disobey, toeing off his boots and tossing his outer shirt as he clambered up on to the mattress.  It was a weird sense of power, being clothed while Castiel was bare for his inspection.  Dean wasn’t sure he liked it, and he slid out of his jean’s before laying firm hand on the flesh of Castiel’s ass.  Cas had already arranged himself on hands and knees, and it looked like had gotten ready in more ways than one as Dean pressed a digit cautiously against Castiel’s rim.  

“Holy fuck,” Dean gasped as his fingers slid easily inside the angel’s backdoor, “Did you… _prep yourself?_ ”

“Apologies,” Castiel murmured, “Had you intended to do that?  I know some humans take pleasure in the preparatory stage of penetrative sex.  I can undo it-“

“No, no Jesus it’s fine,” Dean said, withdrawing his fingers and tugging his shirt up over his shoulders, “It’s just uh…really hot.”  Castiel huffed as Dean shucked his boxers, before rising back to his knees, laying a few errant kisses up the angel’s spine as he teased his fingers back into Cas’ hole.  He almost laughed thinking of Cas manipulating the space-time continuum just to lube himself up.  God he was so slick and hot, and tight around Dean’s fingers.  It was enough to make you forget you were living through the Apocalypse.  Dean pulled out his now slickened digits, sliding a hand around Castiel’s hip, reaching for his dick as he lined himself up and…wait.

Castiel wasn’t even hard yet.  Dean ran an exploratory hand up and down the angel’s back, and the muscles under his palm were knotted and anxious.  That was not the stance of someone who was going to enjoy themselves.  Dean may have been painfully, achingly aroused, but he wasn’t about to hurt Castiel to get himself off, no matter how willing the angel might claim to be.  A feel against their bond confirmed that Cas was feeling only the barest stirrings of want, drowned out by worry and the glint of Raphael’s blade.

“Cas, are you sure-“

“Just do it, please,” Castiel begged, but Dean shushed him, nudging the angel until he was lying on his side and Dean could stretch out next to him.  Cas was wound wire tight, his shoulders rigid and his fists clenched in the sheets.  Dean used his slight height advantage, curling around the angel until his back was cradled against Dean’s chest, their legs tangled and Dean’s hands flat and grounding against Castiel’s torso.

“Dean-“

“Not until you can relax,” Dean told him, “Last night on Earth, you deserve better.”

“This is-this goes beyond-I’m not asking for this,” Castiel panted, his heart racing under Dean’s palm like a cornered rabbit. 

“I’m offering,” was all Dean murmured against the angel’s skin, pressing his mouth tenderly to Castiel’s throat.  He was nervous as his hands traced up and down Cas’ chest.  Sure, they’d fucked the night before, but this was more than sex.  This was intimacy, and judging by Castiel’s response the angel had not experienced near enough of it in his long lifetime.  Dean dropped another kiss against the nape of Castiel’s neck, and with it a memory; just a simple image sent through their bond.  Blue eyes, red rimmed and bleary with pain, but also bright with laughter.  _Castiel was beautiful_ , Dean had thought, and he shared that with the angel now.  Castiel inhaled sharply.

“Do you want me to stop?”  Dean paused his kissing, worried he was going somewhere Cas didn’t want.  Maybe angels couldn’t feel this way about a human.  Maybe Cas just wouldn’t want to.  

“ _No,”_ Castiel breathed, and then he was twisting in Dean’s arms, pulling them skin to skin and claiming Dean’s mouth in a kiss that was as painfully tender as it was demanding

They didn’t waste any time on words that might not be true yet.  More likely than not they were going to die in the morning, and romantic declarations or unmeditated promises weren’t gonna make Dean feel any better when he was knockin’ on Heaven’s door.  But skin on skin, mouths on mouths; in that moment it meant something.  It was the bittersweet throb of life that, however distantly and however briefly, Castiel had now experienced, and with every ardent touch and biting kiss, he told Dean how fiercely he wanted to cling to it.  Their bond was wide open, like a raw nerve, and Dean wasn’t sure if the hot tears on his cheeks really belonged to him or Cas.

Sliding inside of Castiel was almost an afterthought.  They wound up back to chest again, Dean’s face buried in Cas’ hair and his arms wrapped around the angel’s ribcage as he made the first slow press.  Castiel’s moan was unbroken as he shoved himself back onto Dean’s cock, hungry and wanton.  Dean gasped at the sudden tightness, biting his lip before releasing it along with a sharp exhale and a hard thrust of his hips. This wasn’t about holding back or lasting.  It was about touching.  It was about the slick, fever-hot clutch of Castiel’s body around him; the soft skin of his lower belly that Dean’s calloused fingers brushed over as he took a hold of the angel’s cock.

Cas cried out as he jerked forward into Dean’s fist, then pushed back, taking Dean as deep as he could.  His voice cracked and Dean swallowed the sound, craning his neck for a kiss that was worth the awkward angle as he rocked into the crease between Cas’ legs.  Castiel didn’t hold back any sounds, his groans and whimpers telling Dean everything that was right and what to adjust even as overwhelming pleasure rippled back and forth between them.  Maybe Castiel hadn’t had enough sexual experience to know he was supposed to try and keep quiet.  Maybe on his last night the angel just didn’t want to.   Dean wouldn’t have had it any other way, increasing the force of his thrusts as Cas’ rough breathing told him the angel was getting close.

It was a precious few seconds more until Castiel’s spine bowed, and he exhaled raggedly as he spent himself, coating Dean’s hand.  The orgasm became mutual as the sensations thundered back and forth between their sweat slicked skin and Dean groaned, snapping his hips forward and burying himself deep inside the angel as he came.  His fingers were probably bruising against Cas’ skin, but the angel would heal too fast to check.  The tidal flow of consciousness between them was overwhelming, leaving Dean sated and wired and puzzled by what felt like the phantom brush of feathers.  Castiel shifted beside him, and Dean realized he was still locked around the angel, his hips still flush against Castiel’s ass.  He slid out gingerly, coloring slightly at the slick come already starting to cool on Cas’ thighs and stomach.  His discarded t-shirt made a good makeshift washcloth, and Dean did his best to clean them both up.  Castiel could probably do a better job with mojo, but damn it this was part of it and Dean wanted to do it right.  He felt shy, for the first time in probably two decades, cleaning up an angel with a ratty undershirt.  Castiel swallowed audibly as Dean tossed the tee aside and laid back down, joints protesting slightly at the recent increase in unusual activity.

“I-Thank you,” Castiel stammered, already sitting up and sliding towards the edge of the bed, “I should-“ 

“Hey,” Dean objected, pulling the angel gently back to his side, “Take a minute, man.”

Once he knew he was wanted Castiel seemed more than willing to be rewrapped in Dean’s embrace.  He really had to wonder just how much real human contact Cas had experienced.  Even in a post-orgasm haze the angel was so responsive to every touch.  It was a goddamned tragedy.  Dean was already making a mental list of the things he wanted to show him, in bed and out.  Human things, like pancakes and sleepy early morning blowjobs. 

“Next time we should switch,” Dean mumbled into Castiel’s neck, naming one of the top things on his to-do list, “I think you’d like it.”  Castiel stiffened beside him, then crumpled, and Dean wondered if he’d broken angel protocol again.

“There’s not going to be a next time,” Cas reminded him, and Dean felt his feeble hope deflate like a popped balloon.  Raphael.  Right.  Castiel’s shoulders shook slightly and Dean didn’t look to see the silent tears that the angel was finally allowing to fall.       

“We are all going to die tomorrow,” Castiel whispered into the darkness, pulling Dean’s arm tighter around his middle, “And God doesn’t even care.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> People! We are entering the final showdown. I need your comments to make it through! Thanks for reading and being patient :)


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel faces Raphael, but will he be alone?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, this was really intense to write, and I hope you enjoy it. I wanted to warn for intense action, sword violence, and broken bones.

Hail rattled the windows, and thunder shook the very foundations of the old house.  The shutters clapped against the worn siding, and the surrounding trees writhed and twisted in the heavy winds.  

They were gathered in the living room.  A bowl sat on the coffee table, filled with ingredients from the spell kit and a splash of blood, given from Sam’s hand, in case Castiel succeeded.  A bag was packed, ready to run in the likely event of Castiel’s failure.  He had promised them that he had a defense mechanism that would deter any pursuing angels while they made their escape.  A self-destruct button, Dean thought bitterly as he toyed with one of Gordon’s machetes.  Go out with a bang, give them a chance to run with the tablet and try the spell again another day.  Carry on the mission.  They stood in a loose circle around the angel, expressions careful, like being at a wake.  They flinched as lightning struck ever closer.

“He’s gonna tear the place down,” Sam breathed.

“No,” Castiel asserted, blade sliding into his grip, “He is not.”  The torrential rains ceased, and in the eerie stillness that followed the group knew Raphael had arrived.  Castiel raised his head, proud and calm. 

“Thank you,” he said, “All of you.  For your help.” 

“We’ll see you on the other side,” Sam offered, and Chuck nodded.  Castiel smiled his half smile, and walked to the door.  Dean followed, reaching for the angel’s wrist.

“Cas, hang on-“ Castiel cut him off with a firm hand on his chest. 

“I have wandered the Earth for too long,” Castiel whispered, “But in all that time, you were the finest example of humanity I ever witnessed.  And the first I ever touched.  Thank you.”  The screen door crashed shut behind him, his steps creaked down the porch stairs, and Castiel was gone from Dean’s sight.  Dean could still feel the angel’s palm over his heartbeat.  There was silence in the room.

Why, exactly, was Dean letting Castiel go?  His grip tightened on Gordon’s machete.  A decision was being made.

“He knows he’s gonna die, doesn’t he?” Sam’s voice was a surprise behind Dean’s shoulder.  Sam.  Dean’s eyes fell closed, and for a minute he pictured the future his brother could still have.  He thought of the places he might still see, and the languages he might speak.  For a painful minute he imagined Sam’s children, the nieces and nephews whose birthdays Dean might have been invited to.   

“Promise me you’ll let this place rot.”  Dean almost didn’t recognize the sound of his own voice.

“Dean, what are you talking about?”  Sam already knew.  He always knew when Dean had a plan.

“Go to England with Tamara,” Dean continued, still facing the door Castiel just walked through, “Go back to California.  Hitchhike to Alaska, if that’s what you want…Just promise me you’ll put this place in your rearview mirror and never look back.”

“Dean-“

“I can’t let him die alone.”  As the words escaped his lips Dean knew they were true.  Two nights and three days of a stoic, beautiful, heartbroken angel had been more than enough to cross Dean’s wires but good. 

“I’ll come with you.”  Dean almost laughed.  Sam probably would follow him straight into the fucking lion’s den.  Winchesters.  Family men, through and through.

“Nah,” Dean said, “Chuck needs you to finish the spell.  And I need to go help Cas.”

“Wait,” Sam pleaded.

“Sam-“

“No, I mean just a second,” Sam insisted, darting to the sofa, where Tamara’s goods were still spread out next to Chuck.  He returned with a set of thick bronze wristlets, and Dean slid them over his wrist with only a little difficulty. They were inscribed with blocky writing known only to three ethnic groups in the Congo.  Dean grinned as he recognized their purpose.  Protection against lightning from the most lightning struck guys in the world.  Thank God for Sam and Tamara.

“Kick his ass, Dean,” Sam ordered, his voice cracking as he pulled Dean into a rough hug.  Dean slapped him hard on the back before letting go and stepping to the front door.

“Be ready to run, little brother,” he warned, before crossing the threshold and approaching the field of battle.  Castiel and Raphael circling each other in the front yard, gleaming swords and tight grimaces contrasting sharply against Mary Winchester’s overgrown flower beds.  It looked like only a few blows had been exchanged; Castiel’s trench coat bearing a few bloody rips.  Dean noted with pride the shallow cut across Raphael’s cheek.  The archangel was powerful, but Cas was quick.

There was no rain, Dean realized as he dropped off the porch step, no howling wind or rolling thunder.  Looked like Raphael didn’t like to get his feet wet.  The archangel’s eyes flicked to Dean as he approached the dueling angels, and he smirked, probably amused at Dean’s apparent stupidity.  Let them underestimate you, Dean reminded himself.  Always let them underestimate you. 

Castiel stiffened as Dean pressed a hand to the small of the angel’s back, alerting him to his presence.

“ _Dean_ , get back inside,” Castiel hissed, placing himself between Dean and the archangel.

“I’ve been thinkin’ about what you said, Cas,” Dean said instead, mouth close to the shell of his angel’s ear, “God might be an absent son of a bitch, but he dumped you with me and I’m just stubborn enough to believe that means you’re not meant to be out here on your own.”   Castiel inhaled sharply, and Raphael let out a condescending chuckle. 

“How touching,” he droned, then his eyes glowed white and Dean was engulfed in a flood of lightning. 

Huh.  Dean could hear Castiel screaming his name, but, other than a slight tingling sensation, he didn’t feel a thing.  He was gonna be seein’ spots for a few days though.  Fuck, it was bright.  The lightning swerved _around_ him, like he was standing in a glass tube.  It pulsed and splashed against the amulet barrier, standing the hair on his arms straight up.  The pressure was overwhelming, like all the oxygen was being sucked out of him, and dark splotches started to cut into his vision until it ceased as suddenly as it had started.

Dean staggered forward, a little punch drunk but otherwise unharmed by the concentrated electricity.  The scent of ozone tickled his nose and he noted with a kind of blurred amusement that his sleeve was smoking slightly. 

_Dean._   Dean finally noticed Castiel’s hand on his arm, fear and shock echoing across the bond.  Dean grinned.

“Level A’s man,” he said, jingling his wrist so Cas could see the amulets, “Full of great stuff.”

Castiel nodded, huffing in relief, before his eyes focused on the finely honed blade in Dean’s hand.

_Did this belong to Gordon?_ Castiel’s question was urgent, and when Dean nodded his affirmative, something like excitement bloomed in the angel’s gaze.  Faster than Dean could see Castiel sliced across his palm, a thick bead of blood pooling in his hand.

Castiel smeared the dribble of blood along the edge of Dean’s blade, chanting something under his breath.  The metal flashed in Dean’s hand, and a strange buzz filtered up his arm.  Castiel grinned, exhilarated and feral. 

“I’ll hold him,” the angel murmured, eyes locked on Dean, “And you _punch_.”   Dean nodded and returned Castiel’s smile before they both squared off against the puzzled archangel. 

“You are supposed to be dead,” Raphael rumbled, personally offended. 

“Aren’t I just full of surprises,” Dean quipped as he nodded at Cas and the angel struck without warning.  Castiel was graceful as a barracuda could be called graceful, darting back and forth, his blade tickling at the exposed skin of Raphael’s hands and throat, slicing away at his Vessels’ worn canvas jacket.  Raphael was a bull shark, predatory and unhurried until he struck, blows brutal and unyielding.  Castiel dodged, and Dean did his best to distract, sideswiping and undercutting as he slowly worked his way to the archangel’s back.  He did his best to stay out of reach as Castiel kept Raphael eyes front.  Anytime Dean’s blade snicked at the archangel’s legs or the back of his neck, Castiel would take advantage of Raphael’s broken concentration, and draw his focus away from Dean.  Eventually Dean found a clear strike, and he sent up a prayer that whatever Cas did to his knife would work.  If not, he was about to poke an angry bear with a really sharp stick.

A hard cry echoed through the yard as Dean raised his blade, and in a rush of adrenaline he thought maybe Raphael had anticipated his deathblow.  The bottom fell out of his stomach as Dean realized it wasn’t archangel who had cried out.  Castiel looked down at Jimmy Novak’s rumpled white shirt, staring in fascination as a red stain bubbled into existence around the sleek blade embedded just below his heart.

“I believe God has spoken, traitor,” Raphael declared as Castiel dropped to his knees.  Dean went cold as he watched the blood seep across Castiel’s chest, followed by tendrils of white light as the fallen angel’s Grace leaked from the wound.  It was a killing blow.  Dean watched the bob of Castiel’s Adam’s apple, his own machete still poised to strike but utterly frozen as the angel swallowed and tried to speak.  His lips moved, though no sound emerged.  Dean watched, puzzled.  There was something rhythmic to the shape of Castiel’s mouth, like he was repeating himself…or chanting.  Raphael didn’t seem to notice, or if he did he was too busy gloating to care. 

Castiel was beginning to shake, but over Raphael’s shoulder he caught Dean’s eye and the bastard _winked_.  Dean held his ground, and waited as Raphael reached to retrieve his blade.

Raphael grabbed the handle of his sword, only to pull back with a hiss, an angry red burn marring his palm.  Castiel’s eyes fluttered, but he grinned, bloody and spiteful.  If he was going down, the blade was going with him, which left Dean with the drop on one currently unarmed archangel. 

Castiel slumped back on to the grass as Dean finally took a fierce swing at Raphael’s back.  The archangel spun, and for lack of a weapon simply grabbed Dean’s left arm and tugged, causing Dean’s blow to fall wide.

Raphael had a hold on his wrist and though he had enough strength to break his arm Dean could tell by his expression that Raphael didn’t have the juice to smite him.  Dean didn’t even flinch as the bones in his forearm snapped.  Bones could be set and healed.  Raphael couldn’t get him where it mattered, and Dean knew that even in his death throes on the ground somehow Castiel was still protecting him.

“No good, asshole,” Dean smirked as his heart broke, “I’ve been touched by an angel.”  A feint for the archangel’s neck swerved at the last minute and there was a satisfying thud as the business end of Gordon’s machete sank clean in between two ribs.  Raphael hardly flinched.  He looked down at the leather wrapped handle protruding from his torso with disdain.

“Was this meant to harm me?” he inquired, constant smirk playing at his lips, “How adorable.  The human plays at sword fighting.” The smirk flickered, and Dean felt a distinct swoop of relief in his gut as Raphael’s eyes widened in panic. 

“I think,” Dean said, cradling his broken arm to his chest, “That Cas had a plan.”

“What is this-“ Raphael’s voice was already tightening, losing its power; its richness.  The MacGuffin blade, the well kept reminder of Gordon’s sadism, blessed, at the last minute, by an angel who looked Death in the eye and kept fighting, drew out the archangel’s Grace like a needle in a vein.  Raphael grappled for the handle, but his hands were blood slicked and mortal, already drained of power.  He tried to summon lightning.  His eyes glowed blue and faded.  The archangel Raphael was dead.  Gordon Walker’s face contorted into a sneer. 

“Winchester...” The hunter fell and was still.

Dean swayed on his feet, stumbling past Walker’s corpse to the fallen angel, still gasping frantic sips of air where he lay on the grass.  Dean could hear the calling of his brother, of Chuck, but it was like listening through a layer of quilt batting, muffled and distant.  Dean dropped, fighting back bile as the jolt sent a lance of pain up from his mangled wrist.  Castiel’s eyes were wide, electric blue as they sparked with something beyond human injury.  Threads of white light flashed around his eyelids.  It hurt to touch Castiel’s face, but it didn’t hurt enough.  Even now Cas was blocking the worst of his pain, shutting down their bond to shield him.   

_Close your eyes._   The light was getting brighter, painful even, streaming out of Castiel’s eyes and nose, liquid and yet somehow filling the air.

_NO-Cas don’t-_    It was burning Dean’s hands where he tried to stem the flow.  He cried out as his skin blistered but still he couldn’t just let Cas-

_CLOSE YOUR EYES._


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you guys think I was gonna leave you hangin'? One more chapter after this!

“…Grace…We got it Sammy…”

“Dean!  I need you to stay with me.  Where is it, Dean?”

“Knife…Sam… _Cas…_ ”

“I know Dean, I know.  Tell me.  What about the knife?”

“…In the knife.  On the knife…Sam…”

“Dean! Dean stay awake….”

Blood.  White light.  Black feathers.

 

* * *

 

 

Dean was nearly unconscious as he listened to Sam describe his injuries to the emergency room nurse.  A welding accident was the explanation given for his broken arm and second degree burns, which the nurse accepted without question.  Dean tried to stay conscious as they reset his arm, and he tried to stay unconscious of the ashy imprint of feathers that was still singed across his knees, burned right into the denim. 

The events following Cas’ death were still a blur, glazed over in pain and disbelief.  They had succeeded, Sam explained as Dean waited in a hospital bed for his morphine to kick in.  Gordon’s blade had siphoned Raphael’s Grace, and Chuck and Sam had performed the spell over it, and just like that, the Gates were sealed.

“After you ganked Raphael, all these people in suits started showing up in the yard,” Sam told him, “Meanwhile I had barely managed to drag you inside the angel proofing and Chuck and I were trying to get the spell done as fast as we could, and man, when we finished, _nothing happened_.  I thought Chuck was gonna have a heart attack.  Then we heard a kind of funny rumbling and I looked outside and all the angels were panicking and disappearing.  There was this big aurora borealis kind of thing in the sky, and then, clang!  We locked the doors.  We did it man.  We won.” 

Dean tried to return his brother’s enthusiasm, but the victory rang a little hollow. 

“Cas-“ he began.  Sam’s face fell, and he shifted uncomfortably.

“I’m sorry Dean,” he said, “By the time we got to you, Castiel was already-“

“S’okay,” Dean said softly, “I know.  Bastard got his wish though.  Saved the world.”

Sam chuckled, and Dean blinked back some wetness at his eyes and wondered how strong the meds they’d given him were, cause they were really messin’ with his emotions. 

Sam stepped out to make a phone call a few minutes later, citing Dean’s need to rest.  Dean watched through the blinds as Sam dialed the phone with shaking hands, shifting nervously as Dean imagined the other line was ringing.  He jumped when somebody picked up and Dean looked on as the sad smile on Sam’s face became a genuine one, his shoulders straightening.   Through the crack in the door Dean heard his brother laugh.  Sam hung up a few minutes later, staring down at his phone with a faint blush creeping over his cheeks. 

Dean grinned blearily.  Looked like little brother had a date.

 

* * *

 

 

Two days later Dean checked out of the hospital in time to help drive Chuck to the airport.  Sam and Dean waited with their friend in the boarding area until the staticky voice over the intercom called for all economy class passengers for flight 194 from Kansas City to New York.  The prophet shouldered his borrowed duffle bag, facing the two brothers awkwardly as he prepared to board.  Dean felt a twinge of melancholy.  Chuck was leaving, and Dean was losing another member of his family. 

“It’s gonna be weird not tellin’ you guys about my visions all the time,” Chuck admitted, “But I think I’m gonna fumble my way to Paris and never come back.”

“Take care of yourself Chuck,” Dean ordered, “Get drunk.  Sleep around a little.  You’ve earned it man.”

“Yeah,” Sam agreed, “We couldn’t have done any of it without you.” 

“Thanks,” Chuck said, “Really.  Thanks for everything.”   The prophet smiled, without a trace of his usual anxiety.  With a warm handshake he left them, stepping onto the jet plane with the tablet hidden in his duffle, wrapped in a couple of sweatshirts.

 

* * *

 

 

In the month after Chuck’s departure, Dean and Sam switched off on the graveyard shift.  Customers were few and far between right now, but somebody had to watch the desk, even at three o clock in the morning.  Dean didn’t mind.  He wasn’t sleepin’ right in his bedroom after…well after.  He like the familiarity and security of the office, even if it meant dealing with the occasional angry client who was late to the whole “averting the Apocalypse” phone tree.  Still, those were becoming rarer and rarer, and Dean was on the tail end of a quiet night of Solitaire when the front door jingled and a familiar face stepped over the threshold.

Dean’s coffee mug shattered against the hardwood floor.

“Holy shit.”

Castiel stepped into the office.  The fluorescent lights hummed as he walked over the Devil’s trap painted on the floor.

“Hello, Dean.”

Dean picked up the spray bottle off the desk.  After being thoroughly misted by holy water, Castiel _sneezed._ Then he laughed. 

Castiel cut his arm on a silver knife slid across the floor.  He bled. 

“You’re alive,” Dean observed, hands shaking as he leaned nonchalantly against the desk.

“Yes.  I believe,” Castiel said, a smile teasing at the corner of his mouth, “God has spoken.”

After a long, pregnant silence, Dean laughed.  Dean laughed full and loud for the first time in a month. 

 “Get over here, you miraculous son of a bitch.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a day in the life of Team Free Will.

_In the ARMSS of theee ANGGGEELLLS…_

Dean’s cell phone awoke him at two o’clock in the morning, Sarah McLachlan’s grating voice blaring from his bedside table.  Sam’s _hilarious_ mission to find Dean the most embarrassing angel-related ringtone out there had Dean answering his phone with a snappish bark.

“You better not be calling for another philosophical religion debate, Cas.”  An anxious huff sounded across the line, and Dean’s irritation softened. 

“What’s up, angel?”

“I can hear a vehicle approaching Dean,” said a decidedly nervous angel, “We weren’t expecting any customers, and I fear this may involve…talking to people.”

“You know the policies, man,” Dean encouraged, “You can handle it.”

“I can sense their aura,” Castiel insisted, “They seem very impatient…and _feisty_.”

Dean yawned, hearing a pop in his shoulder as he stretched that told him he was probably getting a little too old for this shit.  But that’s what you get when you’re tryin’ to help an angel tip toe his way into humanity. 

“Alright you big sissy,” Dean said at last, “Let me get Sam up and we’ll meet you down there.”

“Okay,” Castiel agreed, relieved, “I’ll see you soon.”

“Yeah.”  Dean hung up the phone and began feeling around for clothes in the dark of his room.  Cas had already stolen his Zeppelin shirt, so Dean made do with ACDC, yawning again as he knocked on Sam’s door.    

Dean heard soft voices from inside his brother’s room.

“You two decent?” he rumbled, “Cas is having his first customer relations crisis and I need Sam.”

“He’s an Angel of the fucking Lord,” came the muffled reply, “He can’t handle it by now?”

“C’mon man, I need your help,” Dean whined, “You know my night driving is shit ever since Raphael.”

Dean heard the tinkling of Tamara’s laughter amid Sam’s grumbling about “…martyr brothers who face down freakin’ archangels…” before the door opened and Sam emerged, rumpled but dressed.

“Nice hair,” Dean joked before leaning his head inside, “Hey Tamara.  When’d your plane get in?”

“Just a few hours ago,” Tamara said, waving from the nest on blankets on his brother’s bed, “Making a quick ‘stop over’ before I head right back out.  ‘M trying to convince your brother to come this time.  Greece.  Could make a nice weekend holiday.”  Tamara leered at Sam, who blushed furiously as Dean laughed.

“Well he’s a stubborn son of a bitch, but I’ll work on ‘im for ya,” Dean promised before reluctantly tossing Sam the keys to the Impala and dragging him down to the garage.  Between the lightning and the Grace, Dean’s vision _had_ actually been a lasting casualty of him and Castiel’s showdown with Raphael.  He wasn’t blind or anything, but he wouldn’t be driving down any dark desert highways anytime soon.  Secretly, at Castiel’s suggestion, he’d gotten himself a pair of reading glasses for paperwork at the office, though if Cas ever mentioned it to Sam Dean swore he’d make him wish God had never brought him back.

The drive is short and in no time Sam and Dean are stepping through the jingling front door to see Castiel attempting to face down a very impatient and very feisty Jo Harvelle. 

“Joanna Beth,” Dean exclaimed, “How long’s it been?” 

“Hey losers,” Jo greeted them both with a quick kiss, “I hear tell y’all blew all our stuff to kingdom come.”

“Hey, we saved the freakin’ world,” Dean countered, ruffling her long blonde hair with affection, “We don’t need your sass.”

“Well _I_ need to make sure you guys didn’t release thirty or so cursed knick knacks onto the unsuspecting world,” Jo continued, throwing a thumb over her shoulder at an affronted Castiel, “And your new guy ain’t much help.” 

“He’s new,” Dean informed her with a wink thrown in Cas’ direction, “And for your information, _Jo,_ we seal all the dangerous stuff when we go on lockdown.  So you can’t have ‘em for eighteen months, but you can tell your mom your lockboxes are all safe and sound.”

“Half those boxes I got huntin’ solo mister, and don’t you forget it,” Jo scowled, before making a considering face, “Speaking of which, you guys got any open Level A’s? I got a little stuff of my own that I don’t have space for at the Roadhouse.”

“Leaving the nest already?” Sam asked with a grin, “What’s Ellen gonna say?”

“What Mom doesn’t know won’t hurt her,” Jo smirked back, “You gonna set me up or not?”

Dean leaned against the desk next to Cas while Sam got all the necessary forms for Jo to sign. 

“Pay attention,” Dean warned, nudging the angel with his shoulder, “You’re on your own next time.”

“Fear not,” Castiel assured him, dark eyes mischievous, “My attentions are extremely focused.”  A stealthy hand slipped under Dean’s jacket, and he tried not to wriggle as Castiel’s fingers tickled at the notches of his spine, teasing at the elastic band of his boxers before slipping into Dean’s back pocket possessively.

“You know,” Dean pointed out quietly, “This workplace would be a lot more professional if you’d quit groping my ass.”

“I disagree,” Castiel whispered in his ear, palming even more blatantly over the denim covered curve of Dean’s backside.  In situations like these, Dean had to yield to his angel’s wisdom. 

 _Sam might be goin’ away for the weekend,_ Dean murmured, a hand looping around the bare skin of Castiel’s wrist, tapping into their psychic radio, _Tomorrow night you wanna maybe…_

 _Make love on the coffee table?_ Castiel supplied, expression deceivingly aloof, _That sounds agreeable._

“When you two are done makin’ eyes at each other,” Jo spoke up, “I could use a hand unloading some of this crap.”

“Yeah,” Dean’s voice came out as a rough squeak.  “I mean, yeah, I can help.  Cas, you got the office?”

“Yes Dean,” came the innocent reply, “I will ‘man the phone’.”

Dean went to follow Jo and Sam out to the parking lot, the jingle of the door bell not _quite_ loud enough to mask Dean’s yelp as Cas landed a firm smack on his ass.  Sam raised his eyebrows as Dean turned to find Castiel already back in the desk chair, a smile playing at his lips as he flipped absently through a book on Greek runes.  Dean shook his head with a grin, and followed his curious brother outside.  Angels, man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THank you so soo much for reading! This story meant so much to me and I hope you all enjoyed it! Until next time!


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